Hawkeye Origins
by Imagine28
Summary: Clint Barton was born to a drunk man and a foolish woman. Later he was sent to foster parents and somehow ended up in the circus ring. From there his life makes another wild turn and he becomes an assassin. His life only really starts as an agent, and then a husband. The Black Widow appears. This is Hawkeye's story, before the Avengers, please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

1\. A New Family

Clinton Francis Barton was born to a drunkard and a naive woman. Both orphans, they had met as children, grew up together, married each other, had two boys, Bernard Charles and Clinton Barton, and wanted to have a third one, hopefully a girl. Clint was five and Barney, nine, when their mother died due to complications during labor. The baby girl never made it.

Not too long afterwards, their father began to drink. He lost his job, and the money he'd made was all spent on the booze. Barney realized he was going to have to provide for himself and his little brother, and at the tender age of ten, he began to search for work. Clint was six at this point, too small to fully understand, too small to help. He stayed home with Dad when Barney went out and so he was the first of the two to be at the receiving end of his father's fist. But Barney wasn't spared for long and when a neighbor asked little, seven-year old Clint how he'd gotten a bruise that size on his cheek, he said the truth. Barney had been in bed, nursing bruised ribs after being brutally kicked in the side by his father. Social services got involved and the boys got sent to a foster home, their dad to prison.

Barney and Clint behaved home after home, leaning on each other for comfort and familiarity, longing for the warmth and safety of a permanent family. However, after two years of being passed on, foster parents after foster parents, they both realized that a permanent family wasn't going to happen.

So they ran away.

It just so happened that the particular house they ran away from was right next to the town's fairgrounds and that the circus was in town, at the fairgrounds.

The circus master had been taking a stroll, looking for a fleeting moment of peace, a break from the chaotic organizing of a circus, - when suddenly he came across two blond, blue-eyed boys. They practically ran into him, unaware of his presence until they were a mere foot away from him.

"Where exactly do you young 'uns think you're going?" The circus master asked.

Thirteen-year old Barney kept his mouth shut defiantly while Clint followed suit out of shyness.

"Where are your parents, huh?" The man asked, not unkindly.

"We don't have any," Clint blurted out before being elbowed in the ribs by Barney.

"Got a home, kids? Some family anywhere?" The Circus master questioned with a kind face.

"No." Barney admitted.

"Nobody's looking for you, then?"

Barney looked at Clint before meeting the Master's gaze. "No," he said sadly. They'd left a note saying that they were leaving, they didn't need anyone to come after them, they were going to be fine.

The circus master looked conflicted for a few seconds. But then he smiled and said, "Well, you do now. Come on."

The boys followed him hesitantly as he made his way to the circus tent.

"Welcome to the Circus. This is your new family. Your new home."

Thus, Barney and Clint found a family; and also a school.

They were taught to find their center of gravity, to balance themselves perfectly, acrobatics, aerodynamics, for elegance, agility and grace in every step and stance and movement. They were taught to aim, to shoot. This became Clint's speciality. Bows and arrows were his favorite, knives, boomerangs, even guns when the circus entrepreneurs had any lying around. Barney helped him refine his aim. He learned to never miss. People would crowd to see him shoot things he shouldn't be able to.

Clint became an aerialist, too, a talented one. Floating 100 feet above the ground, shaping his body mid-air into impossible yet graceful postures. He grew to love heights, the view and vantage point they offered. He felt free up above.

But they were also taught other not so glamorous skills. How to fight, different styles of fighting and wrestling, martial arts, - in case there were ever any " inconveniences" with burglars, angry people, etc,- how to steal, how to pickpocket, how to play mind games.

At first, Barney had had a serious conversation with Clint.

"I know you're still little, bro, but-"

"I'm not little!" Clint had argued.

Barney had smiled. "Alright, you're not little. But you may not yet know that it's bad to lie, to steal, to cheat. You understand?"

"Why is it bad? Everybody does it here."

"I know, Clint, but it's bad to do it."

"So are we gonna stop?"

Barney had sighed. He was too young to be parenting. Too young to be worried about moral issues.

"No, Clint. We can't stop. But whenever you can, try not to do these things, okay?"

"Okay, Barney." And Clint had resumed playing with his bow.

And since the circus was prestigious, won a lot of money and travelled to many different countries in the Americas and Europe, they were also taught a lot of languages. Spanish, German, French, even some Russian and Clint excelled at all of these, though Barney found it a little harder to learn them. But after five years, Barney, now 18, grew tired of the circus. He was fed up with it all, and he told so to Clint. But Clint wanted to stay. He enjoyed this life. Why couldn't Barney enjoy it, too?

"I'll come back when you turn 18, alright? I'll come get you."

So Barney left. And for three miserable years, Clint was alone. But for a total of 8 fun years, Clint worked for the circus, enjoyed his time with his "family," travelled to so many cities he lost count, performed in front of so many people that he didn't really mind that he'd been left behind anymore. He missed Barney terribly, though, and had actually given up hope that his brother was going to come back for him.

But Barney came when he said he would and when he did, he didn't come alone.

"Clint, it's Barney. He's back!" A fellow aerialist said, when he'd finally found "The Hawk," as he'd come to be known.

Clint had been at the highest point of the circus tent, the trapeze. It was his sanctuary, where he could find peace.

But he'd come scrambling down from his vantage point and raced to find Barney, wearing a black T-shirt, waiting for him with two, black-clad, intimidating men.

Barney smiled and embraced his baby brother.

"Happy birthday, little bro," he said. "You've grown."

Clint hugged him close, his throat tight. He swallowed, not trusting himself to speak.

"Barton." One of the men behind the brothers cleared his throat.

The brothers separated.

"Right," muttered Barney. "I want you to come with me, Clint. Leave this circus bullshit, let's go."

Clint looked at the two men behind Barney. They were both tall, muscular, wearing black suits and black sunglasses. Clint wouldn't have been too surprised if he'd known they were carrying guns hidden in the waistline of their trousers. Then he looked back at Barney.

"Why would you ask me this?" He asked finally.

"Listen, Clint - "

"No. You listen to me." Clint pulled his brother aside. "This circus bullshit is my family. They're my family and my home. You want me to leave them just like that?"

"Yes."

"..."

"Do you trust me, little bro?"

"Of course I do. But I haven't heard from you in three years, how do you want me to - "

"No, no. That's not what I asked. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, I trust you."

"Aren't I your family?"

"Yes. Yes, you are."

"Then come with me."

Clint looked away, towards the trapeze, as Barney waited for his answer. "Fine," he sighed. He looked up and met Barney's gaze. "I'll come."

Barney's relief was palpable. His shoulders sagged and he let out a long breath. Clint narrowed his eyes at this. He might have only been 18 but he'd been around many, many people. He knew how to read them, what to expect from them, how to know what they expected of him. This wasn't just relief at being reunited. This relief was much more profound than that. As if. . . as if someone's life had been hanging in the balance.

"Who are those guys?" Clint asked quietly, indicating with a nod to the men in black.

"The one on the left with the blonde hair, that's Lynch, The Boss. The other guy with brown hair, that's my handler, Mann." Barney answered just as quietly.

"Handler. What, do these people own you?"

"No, Clint. Please, don't be ridiculous."

"What do you do for a living, Barney?"

The older Barton scratched the side of his head, looking down.

"We'll talk about this later. Let's get your stuff and talk to the circus master, alright?" Barney successfully evaded the question.

"Fine."

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hi, thanks for giving this a chance. Please tell me what you think. I'm thinking this is going to be a long story to be able to get Clint through Marvel's cinematic universe. Let me admit I'm all for Clintasha. But it'll take a while and I'd like Laura to have her day, as well. Anyways, hope you enjoyed the first chapter.**


	2. Chapter 2

2\. Barney

Barney worked for big time drug dealers. He was their personal assassin. Lynch did all the dealings, the negotiations. Mann was his personal assistant and business partner. They pointed Barney at people they had "inconveniences" with, and Barney would make them disappear. Sometimes, he would act as a sharpshooter, taking them out from far away. Other times, he'd follow the person he was sent to kill and maybe fight a little bit before finishing him off.

But Lynch and Mann were starting to get tired of Barney. He was getting sloppy and too damn cocky. They finally told him that they didn't want him anymore. Mann had forced him to his knees and pointed a gun at his forehead.

"No! Wait, wait! I have an offer!" He'd pleaded desperately.

"What could you possibly offer us?" Mann had asked.

"I have a smaller brother. He's about to turn 18. He's - he's a better aim than me. He's - He can do the job."

Mann had removed the gun and preparations had been made to find and recruit Clint.

"If he doesn't come. If he doesn't join our. . . organization," Lynch had told Barney on their way to the circus, "we kill you. And the kid. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Boss."

Of course, Clint learned all this much, much later. He said goodbye to his circus family and home, got into the back of a black, armored SUV with his brother and was taken to a hotel. Their rooms were on the highest floor, the 15th floor. He ate in the company of Lynch, Mann, and his brother. During their meal, he was explained to what the nature of their work was.

"So, what happens when the negotiations don't go well?" Clint asked, leaning his elbows on the table they were eating on.

"That's where your brother comes in." Mann answered. They explained to Clint what his brother did for a living whilst Barney busied himself eating.

Clint left the room, angry, yearning for a high place. He found a maintenance closet and then a steel ladder that went up. Hoping it led to the roof, Clint went up the ladder and pushed on a hatch. He had been right and was rewarded with the cool night breeze. He walked towards the edge of the roof, looking down at the street 15 floors down and sat, letting his legs dangle on the side of the building.

"Hey, kid. You'd better come down," Lynch had come up for him. How long had it taken to find him? Did Barney tell him that he liked high places? But Clint ignored him, didn't even turn to look away from the city and its blinking lights.

"For your brother's sake, kid. Come down."

Clint stood, turning around. "What's wrong? Why for my brother's sake?"

"Clint!" Barney's voice came from inside the hotel./p

Clint ran for his brother, jumped down the ladder that had taken him to the roof, knocking Lynch down in the process. When he found Mann with a gun to his brother's temple, he didn't even think.

That night, he killed for the first time. He threw the knife he'd kept hidden and Mann was gone.

The Boss had congratulated him, and offered Clint a job. He'd sent for a clean-up crew, and since Lynch was the owner of the hotel, the staff was used to bloodstains.

Clint accepted the offer. How could he not? Where would he run? He was a criminal now. A murderer. Guilt plagued him. Nowhere to go, no one looking for him. Was someone looking for Mann? He wanted to cry, he wanted to punch Barney, he wanted to. . . At least, with Lynch, he'd be able to work with his brother, even if the bastard had almost gotten them both killed. Barney had confessed about why he'd been so relieved when Clint had agreed to come with him. Clint had brushed it off. He was forgiving that way.

Thus, Clint's career as a marksman was established. He sharpened his fighting skills, "infiltrated" infrastructures, - speaking more than English came in handy, - and took out whoever Lynch wanted dead.

Barney had been right. Clint did have a better aim and could do just fine with any weapon using any hand. He made a name for himself. Hawkeye, for his love of heights and keen eyesight. Gradually, Clint began to outshine Barney, with cleaner kills, quicker escapes and returns to The Boss, who loaned him to other people to do their dirty work for them.

Barney began to get jealous which Lynch quickly noticed and began to pit the brothers against each other quite subtly. Barney fell for it, but Clint could see what was going on and spoke about it to his brother at Lynch's safehouse in Miami.

"Can't you see what's going on? Can't you see what he's doing?"

"What? Favoring the oh, so talented Hawkeye?" Barney snapped.

"He's not favoring me! He wants to drive us apart! Come on, Barney. Please."

"Shut up, Clinton, excuse me, Hawkeye. Go find a freaking roof to nest in." Barney stalked off.

So he had looked for a tall building and dragged himself to the roof to brood. He didn't understand Barney's cold, dangerous jealousy. Even though he was the Hawkeye, Clint knew that there were some who also feared Trickshot, an alias which Barney had created for himself when he left the circus. Why did he care so much about Lynch and what the man thought of him? Unless, of course, said man was planning to have them killed. Clint's breath caught in his throat at the dark thought.

His ever present ear piece that served as a communications unit crackled to life, interrupting his brooding, and he heard Lynch's voice call for him.

"Yes, sir."

"Get to the house, I need you here, your brother went out."

"Yes, sir."

Once Clint arrived after doubling back several times and abruptly changing direction more than once, he found that Lynch was waiting for him inside the safehouse with a gun pointed at him. He stopped in his tracks, looking at the gun and then meeting Lynch's blue stare. The man surprised him yet again when he smiled merrily and tossed Clint the Gloch.

"Come with me, I want to show you something." Lynch led him to a room, more like a walk-in closet, where the sides were lined with every imaginable weapon available. Rifles, pistols, handguns, knives, some explosives, and in the far corner, Clint's weakness, one he had not seen in a good while.

"Pick three. You get to keep them. So far, we've supplied you and your brother with weapons and ammunition. You've done an exceptional job. It's hard to find marksmen, even harder to find them with the skill you possess. Consider these a gift." Lynch explained with his hands in his pockets.

Clint immediately went to the bow and the quiver of arrows hanging on the wall beside it. It was a beautiful bow, one that looked like a recurve bow, a dark, dark red, almost black. He pulled back the string, feeling its strength in its elegance. Beautiful. This one was a keeper. He also picked a hand gun and a nice knife. Perfect. And with a long-range rifle already supplied by Lynch, Clint was ready to go.

"Thank you, Boss," he said with an expressionless face and a neutral voice.

" You're welcome, Hawkeye."

Lynch later sent the two Bartons together to end the life of a rival mob boss. He told them he didn't want anyone to figure out that it was them who were after his rival. Barney and Clint complied, thought they weren't really on speaking terms. They figured out that Lynch's rival, a man named Tom Scott, was staying at a hotel nearby, on one of the highest floors. The Bartons stationed themselves on the roof of a building on the other side of the busy main street, a clear visual on Scott and his room.

The fool never thought of closing the drapes of his window.

"Clint had brought along his bow and quiver of arrows, turns out his bow was collapsible, and took aim when Scott was alone. He fired two arrows, one after the other, very quickly. One to break the glass of the window, the other to stop Tom Scott's heart. Maybe not one of his cleaner kills, but it did the job. And how he hated his job./p  
Clint noticed that his brother also took aim with his rifle when two of Scott's goons came running into the room. Barney fired once, twice, missed, shot again, this time getting the second goon.

"What the hell was that for?" Clint asked. "The Boss said to get Tom Scott. Not Tom Scott and friends. What if those men had family?"

"Listen, Hawkeye, they were in the way. Anyway, the job's done. You killed Scott yourself, what if he had family?" Barney spoke icily.

Behind them, the door that led to the roof opened, and they watched questioningly as Lynch walked out. He headed towards them, tsking. "Boys, boys. When would you learn to get along? Unfortunately for the both of you, you won't have a chance." He raised his right hand, holding a gun, and shot Barney in the chest, the spot over his heart.

"No! Barn-!" Clint stopped short. Loading his bow, he turned to look at Lynch. "Why?!" He asked.

"He was no longer of use to me. He was too impulsive, reckless. He let his emotions drive him, in other words, foolish."

Clint aimed at Lynch's forehead, clenching his jaw.

"Go ahead. I wouldn't hold it against you. I'm tired of this life. Of having to send people to kill my enemies. But if you let go of that arrow, all my staff, all the people I loaned you to so you could work for them, they'll be after you. You'll make some very, very powerful enemies."  
Clint stared into Lynch's blue eyes.

"As if I haven't already." He said with finality, letting the arrow fly.

And we all know, Hawkeye, Clint, The Hawk, whatever you want to call him... He never misses.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. Shield?

Clint went into hiding that same day, mourning. The Boss had been right, too, because two days after the incident on the roof, two men came after.

He let them come. The only person he'd had in the world was dead. Clint saw no point in continuing in the world. Especially, not after killing so many people. However, much to his surprise and disappointment, the two men hadn't come to kill him. They'd come to offer him a job and took him to their boss.

"Hawkeye. You've made quite a name for yourself. I'm Enrique Corona, a pleasure to meet you." The two men's boss had introduced himself as the chairman of one of the most prestigious construction companies in Florida.

"You know, Hawk," Clint stood with his hands at his sides, still armed, at the desk of Mr. Corona, where the chairman sat in a comfortable desk chair.

Killing The Boss like you did, that was some feat. Do you know how long gangbangers have been trying to kill him?"

"No, sir."

"Decades," Corona said, smoking a cigar. "How long had you been with him?"

"Two years."

"Imagine. One of my boys always trying to get The Boss. On him for 23 years. You get him, alone on a rooftop. The product of two years. How long have you been in this line of work?"

"Two years, sir."

"How many people have you killed?"

"... I lost count."

"That's a lie, Hawkeye. Everybody knows how many lives they've taken."

"More than 20, sir." Clint's voice deepened suddenly.

"You've been a busy man, then. I don't blame you. Did The Boss teach you how to use off-shore accounts? How to get your money?"

"Yes. He did."

"I see." Corona puffed on his cigar for a few seconds. "The reason I'm asking you all this, is that I have a job for you." Corona waited for a response. Taking Hawkeye's silence as consent, he continued to speak. "My main competitor is a man in poor health. His son will soon inherit control of his company. He is also a very annoying politician."

"Who do you want dead?" Hawkeye asked, knowing the direction Corona wanted the conversation to take.

"Both of them. Can you do that? I'll pay you in cash."

Clint smirked. Of course he could do that. But maybe he didn't want to. "Where are they?"

"Right now they're in Alaska, they have some sort of cabin up there. The old man has a problem with heat and his son pretends to take care of him."

"Why do you want them dead?"

Corona seemed to lose his patience and scowled. "Look. You either do the job or I tell my boys to kill you."

Hawkeye did a quick headcount. Two guys on his left, two on his right. He could easily take them. But that would mean killing them, Corona, and anybody else he might encounter on his way out. More than five people. Clint didn't want to kill anymore than he had to. "I'll take the offer," he said finally. "But I'll need transportation and more clothes."

Clint began to research on Corona's competitors. Turns out they had a mansion about 5 miles from Nome, Alaska. It got bitterly cold there, blinding blizzards, avalanches, the whole deal. br / Clint completed the job, this time using a rifle, though he almost got himself buried by an avalanche in the middle of a thick forest.

Corona was very happy with Clint's work and efficiency. He hadn't expected Clint back for another month, when Clint had come back in less than two weeks. Corona had payed well and told Clint that, should he ever need a permanent job, he was welcome to work for him. He had also said he would spread the word, Hawkeye was back in business, even if The Boss wasn't.

Clint went on, finding job after job in a similar fashion as he had with Corona. His sleeves, his clothes were stained with red and he felt he left red footprints wherever he went. There were no words to describe the guilt. Some did come after him, though, and Clint would hide and dodge bullets, half wishing one would be true and kill him, before he killed anymore people. And as the months turned into years, he realized he was making more enemies, and the bullets were getting closer. He got grazed on the arm more than once and twice he'd gotten shot in the leg, thrice in the side. He felt he was always looking over his shoulder.

But he was good at what he did and if whoever was shooting at him happened to get into his line of sight, - which was very long, the line, - they were gone, and arrow ending their life.

Eventually, Corona sent for Clint once more. Clint went along with the two messengers, idly wondering what Corona wanted from him.

,Clint was shown to Corona's office again, realizing that the plaque that identified this office as Corona's said CEO, now. Nothing had changed except that Corona was a little older, a little plumper, but he still liked to smoke apparently. And he still had the same four guards.

"You've been busy, Hawk. It took me a while to find you, can't believe how good you've gotten at what you do. That governor down in Arizona? How much did they pay you to kill him?" Corona puffed on his cigar.

Clint didn't answer, standing at Corona's desk, unmoving. He didn't like to talk about his kills and the money. He did it because there was nothing else left for him, nothing but his bows and arrows, and his rifles and bullets and his homemade weapons and explosives and. . . guilt, bleakness.

"Fine, it's alright, you don't have to tell me. How long's it been since I last saw you. Eight, nine years?"

"Five years."

Corona chuckled. "How old are you, Hawkeye?"

"I don't see how that's relevant." Clint frowned.

"Just answer the question."

Clint hesitated and after a second, one of the guards on his right pointed a gun at his temple, clicking a round into place. Clint clenched his jaw and answered. "Almost 26 years old, sir."

Corona laughed a little bit and waved his hand at the guard, who lowered his weapon.

"Things don't have to be difficult unless you make them, Hawkeye. I'm trying to help you out. Rumor on the street is you got competition."

"Is that so?" Clint drummed his fingers against his leg, impatient and a little annoyed.

"Ever heard of the Black Widow? Lethal, beautiful and also good at what she does."

"Never heard of her." Clint lied. She was a legend, of course he'd heard of her. More kills to her name than anyone on record. Once she had killed a man who had been offering a job that he had been interested in. Corona was right when he said she was competition.

"Just as well. Don't cross her path, Hawk. I mean it."

"Hmph," Clint waited while Corona puffed on his cigar. That had to be bad for his health.

"Ever heard of shield?" Corona asked after a short silence.

"Shield? Yeah, I've heard of shields but - ,"

"No. Shield. Singular."

"Shield?" Clint frowned. They'd been after him for a while, but he wasn't about to tell Corona that. "I don't think so."

"It's an acronym for a government agency. As annoying as they get. Their agents are trained soldiers and spies, usually. They're involved, I think, with the World Security Council, but that's not the point. You were wounded recently, no?"

"Yes, two weeks ago." Clint gave up on trying to keep things to himself if Corona already knew about them.

"And shot at four days ago, right?"

"You've been following me." Clint's voice deepened in irritation.

"If I owe someone a favor, yes."

"You don't owe me anything. And I sure as hell don't owe you."

"That's beside the point. The point I'm trying to make, Hawkeye.. Is that SHIELD is after you. And they won't stop until you're dead."

"There's a waiting list for that, actually. Of people who want me dead. I don't think SHIELD will be able to kill me if I've already been killed by someone else." Clint commented nonchalantly.

"This is serious, Hawkeye!"

"Look, Mr. Corona, I appreciate your concern. But I've managed so far. I can take care of myself."

Corona sighed, putting out his cigar. "Don't play with the government, Hawk. They're after you."


	4. Chapter 4

4\. Redemption

As soon as Clint walked out of Corona's building and into the hot crowded streets, he realized he had a tail. Was this another man from SHIELD? And if not, why was he following Clint? The man who was following was good, Clint thought as he tried to lose him in the crowds of Miami. But Clint was better. Three sharp turns, a quick duck into an alley and a long flight of stairs later, Clint was on a low roof tailing the man from above.

The man was clever and walked around the block for another five minutes, obviously waiting for Clint to show up again. The man angled his head as if he were listening to something and Clint narrowed his eyes at this. If this man had an earpiece, that meant someone else also had a comms unit. Organized. A government agent, perhaps. The man moved his lips, talking, answering, and Clint watched him move into the crowd, letting him go. He didn't really want a confrontation. If SHIELD was onto him, maybe they'd do the job and put him out of his misery. Clint signed, leaning back from the edge of the roof, from such demoralizing thoughts.

The next day, Clint wandered about Miami, bumping into people, wearing jeans and a black leather jacket with a gray shirt underneath, a wrist bow hidden up one sleeve, a knife up the other. He made himself as casually visible as possible, going into stores, spending time just gawking at tall buildings. He went into a coffee shop, chatted idly with the waitress, made her smile with his funny sarcasm.

Sure enough, less than half an hour later, Clint's tail walked into the coffee shop. Same man as yesterday, brown hair carefully combed to the side, a pristine blazer and black tie. Plenty of businessmen in downtown Miami, the man blended in just fine.

Clint ate comfortably, albeit somewhat hurriedly, and after paying for his meal and tipping the swooning waitress, left the coffee shop with a wink thrown over his shoulder. Anyone would have thought he was winking at the waitress, but he smiled to himself after seeing the man frown in annoyance.

There was, however, a flaw in Clint's plan, and he knew it, too. They might decide to kill him before he figured out who they were. But Clint didn't think that was going to happen because he'd never broadcasted himself like he had today, and he was betting that in the end, like always, curiosity would win.

Clint decided to walk into an alley with no exit. Foolish, maybe, but if there was going to be an end to this, he wanted to speed things up a bit.

Clint was leaning boredly against one of the brick walls of the alley when another man wearing a suit walked in.

"Hawkeye?"

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"I work for Corona. I'm here to get you out. I'm here to help you."

"What? I don't need your help." Clint said. "I don't need anybody's help."

"You don't understand. SHIELD, they're rough. Corona owes you. By killing The Boss you saved his life. He's trying to return the favor."

"I already told you. I don't need help. You're an easy target standing where you are, by the way, buddy. Go away, I can take care of myself."

"Come on, Hawk, don't be stu- " A gun shot, which startled Clint and dropped Corona's man to the ground.

"Don't worry," another voice said from the alley's entrance. The man that had been shadowing Clint was walking towards him. "Rumlow assured me it was just a stun dart, he'll wake in a few minutes. You are Hawkeye, correct? Or that is your alias, I mean."

Clint frowned, not wanting to speak. He was curious but also very suspicious.

"I try to be nice, Hawkeye. But there are other agents who, I'm sure, can get answers from you."

"Who are you?" Clint asked wearily.

"I am Phil Coulson. I've been shadowing you for a while."

"Yeah. I noticed," Clint's frown remaining on his face. "Who do you work for?"

"I'm an agent of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"That's, that's quite a long name."

"I am aware." The man said that as if he was used to similar comments.

"Were you sent to kill me?" Clint wanted to get to the bottom of things.

"I would prefer to continue this conversation where we can both be comfortable," Coulson had just finished saying when, at that exact moment, Corona's man regained consciousness and reached for a gun at his side.

Everything happened at once.

Another man came running into the alley and pushed Coulson out of harm's way. Corona's man aimed with the gun and Clint just reacted. He lunged for the man and fell right in front of him. Right in front of the gun's barrel. He heard the gunshot and felt an angry explosion of pain in his side, as he tried to wrestle the gun away from Corona's man.

"What are you doing? I'm trying to help you!" The man seemed confused at Clint's lack of cooperation.

"I already told you. I don't need help." Clint finally took the gun away and knocked Corona's man out cold with it.

But then Clint was brusquely pulled up to his feet and punched across the face. He stumbled, fell, picked himself up again and faced the man that had pushed Coulson out of the way.

"What's wrong with you?" Clint asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, body angled to protect his wounded side.

"Rumlow." Coulson warned, already standing and brushing the dust off his suit.

Rumlow charged at Clint, knocking the wind out of him. Clint grunted, he didn't want to fight, but he didn't want to get his ass kicked either. So he kneed Rumlow in the stomach, flipped him around and pulled his arm up behind him unnaturally. But Rumlow knew how to fight and soon enough was loose and attacking Clint again.

"Agent Rumlow." Coulson spoke sharply.

Clint kicked, punched and got the upper hand quickly, pushing Rumlow to the ground. But then Coulson took out a gun, held it close to his temple, while Clint held a knee on Rumlow's back.

"I don't want to use this. Get off of him," Coulson ordered.

Clint put his hands up, and cautiously stood up off of Rumlow. In no time at all, Rumlow was on him again, pushing him to the ground, pulling his arms back brusquely. Clint felt a horrible pop and groaned as Rumlow dragged him to his feet, feeling a surge of blood from his wounded side.

"You're in SHIELD custody now, Clinton Barton," Rumlow growled and led the way out of the alley.

Clint looked behind him and saw Coulson shake his head at the ground, putting his gun away, and follow them to a dark car with tainted windows.

They took Clint to a private airport close by, where there was a jet plane waiting.

"We'll be flying to DC, Mr. Barton." Coulson was leading him aboard now, instead of Rumlow, and Clint was thankful. His shoulder hurt like hell and the bullet wound on his side wasn't much better.

He settled into the too comfortable couch lining the side of the jet, facing Rumlow and Coulson, his hands still cuffed behind his back. The plane ride for Washington DC was quiet, though he chuckled when Coulson admonished Rumlow at the ill use of the stun dart and the Clint stayed as still as possible, quietly enduring the pain. He felt like shit and wanted to black out. So much for speeding things up.

As it turned out, he did lose consciousness because the next thing he knew, he was lying in a cot in a smallish room with white, sterile walls and a white metal door. His side had been bandaged and the dislocated arm was now in a sling. Clint slowly sat up and saw a camera in the far corner of the room. He waved at it and winced. He knew he'd be in pain for the next couple of days.

The archer, bruised and exhausted, leaned his head back with a sigh. He counted the seconds and was close to 150 when he heard a soft metallic click of the titanium door's lock turn and Coulson was walking in with a plastic chair and a clipboard.

"Glad to see you're awake." The man said amiably. "The doctor was about to inject you with methylphenidate. Thought that would wake you up. Fortunately for you, however, I convinced him not to."

"Gee thanks," Clint said dryly. "I owe you one." He sighed. "What do you want with me?" Clint asked finally.

"People know your name, Mr. Barton. You have the skills of an operative that's spent decades out in the field. In the wrong hands, you are dangerous, to say the least."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"SHIELD considers you a major threat. There have been three attempts to take you down. I was sent this last time to make sure someone got the job done and analyze you a little bit. Unlike the other three times when you weren't aware of who was shooting you, only that you were being shot at, you broke your pattern. You chose not to kill me.

"That speaks volumes, Mr. Barton. Which is the only reason why I had you brought in, instead of finishing the job."

"Well you should have finished the job. I don't understand why you didn't," Clint retorted.

Coulson just stared at him and Clint averted his gaze.

"I believe in second chances. I believe in. . . redemption. Do you, Mr. Barton?"

Clint felt his mask of bored arrogance drop and his eyes clouded with sadness and guilt.

"I want to. You have no idea how much I want to." He said, hating how weak his voice sounded.

"Good." Coulson said. "Then we can talk about your recruitment into SHIELD."

And though Clint wasn't fully aware of everything being recruited into SHIELD meant, he knew that these were the good guys, the ones that cleaned up the messes people like him made and left behind, and he wanted to be a good guy.


	5. Chapter 5

5\. A promise

Afterwards, Coulson told him he would be evaluated, observed. It would be unbiased and very thorough. If he passed, he would be pardoned for all his crimes, he would meet the Director and be sworn to secrecy and into SHIELD. Clint thought it seemed straightforward enough and he worked hard to be worthy of his second chance. He knew he was lucky he'd gotten one and he was so grateful to Coulson for it. The man seemed to be the one in charge of him, showing him around the base, explaining things carefully and Clint owed him for everything.

The physical evaluation wasn't that bad, he had to spar with a few big fellows, show he knew how to fight and could protect himself, and run on a treadmill for a while, do a couple of pull ups, push ups, curl ups, a couple minutes on a punching bag. He thought he did pretty good, he had to be fit to survive in his line of work, or what it had been. Doctors were measuring his heart rate and form throughout the whole ordeal behind glass windows and he saw Coulson on the other side, immediately feeling more at ease.

The psychological evaluation had been weird, Coulson had briefed him on it so he hadn't been too surprised. Strange, seemingly random questions that were meant to baffle and expose hidden character traits. "Would you rather ride on a train, dance in the rain or feel no pain?" What the hell did that mean?

Then he met SHIELD's director, Nicholas J. Fury.

Of course, Clint had already seen him around, good vision and everything, while he had been assessed. He'd seen the look of awe and admiration Coulson got when he mentioned him. He'd seen the small nods of respect directed to the big, dark, eye-patched man as he walked around, and he'd seen how everyone got out of his way and he'd known that he was the boss in charge around here.

So when Coulson had dragged him from his white room where he'd woken up, to the director's office, he had a good idea of who the director was.

Director Fury sat behind a dark desk, leaning forward. Clint realized Coulson had left him and sat down alone in front of Fury, crossing his arms almost aloofly.

"Clinton Francis Barton. A very proper name for someone who's been less than proper."

"Director Fury. A pleasure to meet you as well." Clint gave a tiny, little smile.

"How much do you know of SHIELD?" Fury asked, frowning at Clint from his seat, making the archer squirm under his gaze.

"Not much, sir. Only that you're the director of an anti terrorist government agency."

Fury nodded. "You've got the basics. Our job is to is to protect the world from evil, to shield it, and to give people second chances, like yourself."

"So why were you after me?" Clint asked with genuine curiosity.

"Mr. Barton, do you know who you were working for? Most of the men that hired you were very, very dangerous."

Clint met his answer with guilty silence.

"What would you like to do now?"

"Well, I... haven't thought about that" Clint grew serious as he gave his answer. "I'd like to have an honest job, sir. But I know..." He sighed suddenly and tiredly. "I know that with my skill set, that's probably not possible."

Fury was quiet for a while.

"That is true," he said finally. "You have done some nasty deeds, Mr. Barton," Fury paused when Clint visibly winced. "And if it weren't for SHIELD's direct intervention, you'd be stuck in a dark cell as of right now.

"I'm basically offering you a choice. Work for us, have all your crimes officially pardoned, so you don't have to go to jail for the rest of your life. You don't have to answer right now. I'll tell Coulson to take you to your room."

But before the director could reach for the ever present walkie talkie, Clint spoke again.

"There's no need to call him. I've decided."

Director Fury turned to face Clint again. "And what have you decided?"

"I'll work for SHIELD."

"Good, then we can begin your briefing as an agent."

"There's just one thing, Director," and Fury frowned slightly.

"I have a wife."

"A wife?" Fury was genuinely surprised.

"Yes, sir. I'm married." Clint almost smiled as he thought of her. Laura Barton. She was the balm to Clint's chaotic life. Dark hair, beautiful, warm brown eyes, Clint loved her and was completely devoted to her.

"Hm. Well, this changes things."

Clint's hopes fell to the ground and he dropped his gaze. He was sure Fury would turn him away, and Clint couldn't blame him. An agent with a family was a liability. A threat to the organization. A weak link.

"We'll have to lie about your marital status in our files and you'll have to be very, very selective about who you tell but I'm sure you can work it out."

Clint had looked up in surprise as Fury continued speaking.

"Of course, it is safer if you never mention your family. But it is up to you who you tell."

"Of course, sir. Thank you, sir." Clint felt an immense weight lift from his chest, and was surprised at his hope that he could be a better person, that he could be more than a simple mercenary, that he could do things right.

Afterwards, the paperwork wasn't that bad. Clint had to sign a few things, a contract of secrecy, and then they read him his pardoning letter and he sighed because, well, he didn't feel like smiling or crying.

Coulson led him to a room that was meant for him. A place to stay when he wasn't out in the field or at home. It wasn't particularly large but compared to the cell he had been in, - only know did he realized the white, sterile room had been a cell, - it was great. It had a nice bed with black and navy blue covers, a coffee table and a kitchenette with a small kitchen table.

"In time, you'll get bigger quarters, and more appliances, like, a TV and later a fridge and a microwave. For now, though, Fury wants you to eat in the cafeteria hall with everyone else," Coulson explained.

"Thank you, Agent Coulson." Clint turned to his new handler. "I don't know how I can ever repay you. I..." Clint stopped talking and bowed his head, ashamed at his suddenly teary countenance. His life had been miserable, even after Laura, because he was never able to spend time with her, his work had made him feel sick inside. He knew he'd killed for bad people and had done so willingly for years.

Coulson put a paternal hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright now, Clint. Just promise me this."

Clint looked up to meet Phil Coulson's gaze, and he realized he was willing to do anything for this man.

"If you ever get the chance to spare someone's life, straighten them out, use SHIELD to help them, promise you'll help them too."

Clint nodded almost immediately. "I promise."

If he had been saved, maybe he could save someone else too.

* * *

AN: I hope you're enjoying the story and I would really appreciate any feedback, reviews, critiquement, ideas, whatever. Thanks for reading! ;-)


	6. Chapter 6

6\. Coming Home

Laura Barton was just finishing putting away laundry in her small apartment when she heard a quiet knock at the door. She approached the door slowly, cautiously, wary of unexpected visitors. She heard the quiet knock again and opened the door slowly, then seeing who was at her doorstep, her cautious frown morphed into a loving smile as she threw her arms around her husband. Clint hugged his wife back, laughing softly with relief.

As they broke away from their hug, the couple's relief was short-lived because, just as Clint was closing the door and turning to face his wife again, he collapsed.

Clint was sick; he had gotten vaccines while at SHIELD headquarters and now he had a fever and chills, and he was cold and he seriously thought that whatever virus was raging inside him was going to kill him. Laura was beyond worry, placing ice cold towels on his forehead, wanting to reduce the fever, bringing thick blankets and covers to cease his chills.

"Remember-" Clint asked once, when Laura was lying next to him, hugging him, trying to warm him. "Remember when we met?" Clint managed to ask, his body shivering against Laura's.

"Of course I remember." Laura answered softly, feeling how his fever made his body tense up.

"I - I'm sorry I broke into your place like that. You could have.. Gotten hurt."

"But I didn't. And I'm not sorry you broke in. You could have died and we wouldn't have met."

Clint chuckled weakly. "I'm glad I met you Laura."

She heard him sigh and hoped he had fallen asleep. She curled herself around him, tightening her embrace around Clint, as she remembered a dark, rainy night almost two years ago.

She had woken up after midnight and saw that the window of her bedroom was open when she clearly remembered closing it before lying down. Laura could hear the rain falling outside in the dark, then lightning scattered the clouds and she had seen a man's silhouette drop inside and she gasped.

The man, - Clint, - had groaned as he slid down the wall onto the floor. "Well done, Barton. That was... way too... close." Then a soft thud and Laura remembered imagining his head hitting the wall as she heard his ragged breaths suddenly even out as he went limp.

Laura had gotten out of bed gingerly, afraid of getting the man's attention if he was still conscious and turned on the light of her room. As the room was illuminated, the light had revealed a battered man leaning against the section of the wall underneath her window, unconscious. Beside him, as if he had just been holding on to it, a bow and quiver of deadly looking arrows. Laura had debated what to do, briefly considering calling her overprotective cousin, Cooper, but quickly decided against it. In the end, she had decided she would tend to the man's wounds and leave him out in the hallway to fend for himself afterwards.

So Laura had taken the difficult task of dragging the poor guy across her carpet, probably banging him up more, and somehow managed to pull him up onto her bed. Laura had had to patch up her cousins before and had some basic medical experience.

Later she had realized this man had been in a very serious knife fight. After cutting off his blood-soaked shirt, she'd seen he had two diagonal gashes from his chest to his side and a deep cut on his arm also. She had started cleaning the injuries and heard him groan weakly.

Now, Laura was nice, sometimes even too nice. But she was never stupid. She had realized that this man was most likely, kind of, very dangerous with his bow and arrows and also a knife she'd found in a hidden sheath. She had also realized there was a very real possibility that he would hurt her, and she had silently thanked her cousin Cooper for teaching her how to take down a man. But she had continued caring after him even after he had started moving and flinching when she touched his bare skin. Laura remembered having frowned at this PTSD symptom and jumping herself when he suddenly woke and grabbed her wrist.

"Hey, easy. Easy.. I'm just making sure you're alright. Okay?" She had talked in a soothing voice, looking earnestly into his blue eyes and he had relaxed before succumbing to exhausted sleep once more.

Laura had finished dressing his injuries and bandaging his arm and then left him on her bed to sleep, taking his weapons with her. She walked out to her small living room, where she realized she would have to spend the night.

When she had woken up, late, since it was a weekend, wonderful smells were emanating from her kitchenette and she was covered in a blanket she hadn't tucked herself in with.

He had left, having made breakfast for her, though in his state she couldn't imagine how. He'd taken his gear but left an amiable note, thanking her for everything and promising to not interfere with her life ever again, signed Clint.

Of course the latter didn't turn out to be true, for within the month, Clint had somehow gotten hurt again and once again crash landed into Laura's bedroom.

This time, though, he wasn't on the border of passing out and after Laura calmed down at having someone break into her room again, they were able to have a conversation over coffee. Laura was nice, if somewhat subdued, it was late and she liked sleeping at night and he was probably dangerous but he was here again and _what_? Clint was funny and he wanted her to like him so he was gentlemanly and asked her to go to dinner with him.

And now here they were, married and Laura thought that as crazy as Clint was, she still loved him and as dangerous as his job was, she would still stay with him. She would always be here when he came home.

* * *

AN: Sorry it took so long, I was seriously starting to feel guilty. Again _please, please_ review. Tell me what you think, what you like, don't like, ideas, questions. And thanks to Kitty for the one review because when you write, you need feedback. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

7\. Blood Money

When Laura woke the next day, Clint was still sleeping peacefully. Once she made sure he no longer had a fever, she got up to make a light breakfast. Supposing that he probably wouldn't stomach a big meal, she made oatmeal and added some blueberries and a little granola to it. She made some for herself as well and then decided to wake him, making her way to their bedroom.

Clint was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees and Laura paused at the door at the sight of her awake and overwhelmed husband. She approached him softly and sat next to him, hooking her arm around his. Her other hand rubbed his arm absentmindedly and she leaned her head on his muscled shoulder, sighing quietly.

She was used to Clint's sudden depressions though he was usually bright and full of charm when he was with her. She knew of his work and the danger it involved, her family's legacy was similar. But she had fled from it, whereas Clint, she feared, couldn't.

"I got a new job," he said finally, his voice hoarse from a day of fever.

Laura sighed again. "I love you, but I'm not sure I can love what you do, Clint," and he could hear the tired in her words, the hesitance that he had somehow overcome with flowers and charm and honesty and love.

"I know that you told me... You once told me you didn't want to know about my jobs." Clint had worked hard to earn her trust. He had worked hard to be more than a gun for hire in her eyes.

"Clint," Laura shifted and moved to stand but he held her hands, pulled her onto his lap.  
Laura stiffened, not wanting to talk about dark things but then relaxed into the safe embrace of his strong arms.

"I'm working for the good guys, now. I got caught by the government, but they pardoned me and now I work for them."

"The government?" Laura looked up through her dark eyelashes to meet his bluegray eyes.

"Yeah, I'm clean now." Clint met her gaze and Laura could see the usual heaviness of guilt in his eyes was leaving.

Her hand reached to his brow, her fingers ran through his hair, and she kissed him lightly on the lips. Clint smiled at her affectionate attentions, knowing she cared and she was secretly happy for him.

"Come on," Laura stood and pulled at his hand, "I made you some oatmeal."

"And coffee?" Clint hesitated a bit lazily.

"Yes, I made coffee. But you're going to drink from a mug this time, _not_ from the coffee pitcher," Laura admonished.

"Yes, Mrs. Barton. Whatever you say."

So the Bartons had breakfast and Clint told her about Coulson and how he had helped him and Laura told him about her new job in Manhattan at a new restaurant.

But a loud rapping at the door cut their conversation short and Clint motioned Laura to be quiet as he stood up to open the door.  
The knocking intensified and Clint glanced at Laura, who shook her head and he decided to take his chances.

Before the visitor could knock again, Clint burst the door open, grabbed the extended fist and whipped the offender around, pulling him inside and into a wall while simultaneously pushing the door closed with his foot. Clint pressed the man's face into the wall before he recognized him and abruptly let go.

"Cooper!" Laura was now standing, surprise covering her features as she recognized her cousin. "What are you doing here?"

Cooper, sharing Laura's brown hair and eyes, only straightened his leather jacket and rearranged the gun tucked in his jeans, glaring at Clint without malice.

"A guy can't show up at his favorite cousins' place without getting mugged, can he?"

"Not when he was trying to beat the door down, _cousin_ ," Clint smiled as Cooper walked over to Laura and gave her a warm hug.

"Missed ya, darling."

"You just saw me the other day, but it's good to see you," Laura smiled when she returned the hug.

Clint went to sit on a couch in the living room, gesturing at Cooper to sit.

"You know, I already told you lovebirds but I really like this new apartment, Laura has more space, she doesn't have to walk far to the subway, and when you guys start procreating, I'm sure you'll fit comfortably," Cooper grinned, making himself comfortable in his cushion, and leaned back, resting a leg on his knee.

Clint looked at Cooper with an annoyed expression, and Laura blushed.

"What do you want, man? I know you're not visiting just to marvel at the new place." Clint asked a little suspicious. He knew how to read people and Cooper looked _too_ nonchalant and relaxed to convince him he wasn't in trouble. He knew about Laura's shady family and he knew Cooper ran some black market dealings, maybe even did some drug trafficking. He knew that Laura's father had started some nasty business and since Laura didn't want to inherit anything, Cooper and his brothers had taken over.

Cooper finally let the mask drop and he sat forward, no longer pretending to be unwinded. "Some guys had been following us for the past three days." Cooper spoke seriously, talking more to Clint than to Laura. "I had two of my best bring them in to get information from them. Half an hour ago, they told us they want her."

"Who's 'her'?" Laura asked, frightened for her cousin.

"Why?" Clint asked instead, and when Laura turned to see him, she saw the trained marksman assessing a situation logically.

"They think she might know something about the old man's stashed money."

"My _father's_ riches?" Laura asked, still confused and Clint put a placating arm around her shoulders.

"And does she know anything?" He asked Cooper who shook his head in response.

"Everyone got inheritance from him. He was a family man, he believed in leaving everything to the family."

"But obviously she got the biggest part."

" _She_ didn't get the biggest part because _she_ didn't want blood money." Laura interjected hotly and Clint winced, removing his arm from around her.

Laura turned in her seat to gape at him. "Really?" She stood up and left the living room, and both men grimaced when she slammed the bedroom door.

Clint sighed, leaning back into the couch, and managed to chuckle drily. "Blood money."

"That's what she always called it, once she saw what we did. We never had an easy childhood, you know?"

"Yeah. I know."

Clint had never expected being accepted by Cooper and Laura's cousins, and he had never expected himself accepting them. He supposed it was their mutual understanding of danger and the ugly part of life and business that had allowed them to trust each other. Or maybe it was Laura that had forced them to tolerate each other.

"I hate to ask you, Clint. I know you've got your own agenda. But I'm going to need your help on this one. These men aren't your regular brawlers and...-" Cooper looked in the direction that Laura had taken. "I'm worried for her."

"You don't have to feel bad for asking. You know I'd do anything for her."

Cooper's phone buzzed once in his jacket's pocket and he flipped it open to see the incoming message.

"I gotta go," Cooper stood up and quickly answered the text. "And um. I'll- Tell Laura I said bye and- Don't take her reaction personally, she had a hard time with some of the other family after my uncle died."

"No problem, man. I'll figure it out and if something happens, tell me. I have leave at work, I'll help you," Clint spoke somberly as he opened the door for his cousin.

Cooper nodded a silent thanks and with a final glance in Laura's direction, walked out the door.


	8. Chapter 8

8\. Symptoms

After Cooper left, Clint decided it was probably best if he went to make peace with his wife. But when he went to knock on their door, it opened brusquely and Laura ran past him to the bathroom looking a little green. Concerned about his wife, Clint followed into the bathroom where he found her kneeling, emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She finally stopped retching and stood up somewhat wobbly, to which Clint reacted by putting an arm about her waist as she made her way to the sink.

Laura leaned heavily on the sink for a while before saying, "I hate morning sickness. And having to pee a lot. And being tired all the time."

Clint frowned, looking at her through the reflection in the sink's mirror, and Laura got her toothbrush, pretending to focus on her squeezing a healthy amount of toothpaste onto it to avoid meeting his blue eyes or their reflection.

"I thought you'd gotten the stomach flu from whatever I had," Clint said as he tried to process her symptoms.

"I thought you were too sick to notice," Laura said around the toothbrush in her mouth, her brown eyes flashing with annoyance.

"Laura, how long have you been puking?"

The brunette ignored him while she finished her brushing and rinsed her mouth and dried her hands and face. Clint realized that the bathroom would probably look better with maybe a gray vinyl wood plank floor than the current, white, stained one.

"Laura..."

"I don't know, okay? Maybe a week or two." Her eyes were starting to tear up and she hugged herself, still avoiding his gaze.

Clint moved and pulled her into him, resting his cheek on her head.

"I'm scared, Clint." He just rubbed her back reassuringly. And then, in a soft voice: "I'm pregnant." His hand froze.

* * *

Turns out, after a confirmation from Laura's family's doctor, Laura was on her ninth week and the baby was still going to be in the oven for another six to seven months. Clint couldn't believe it, it was too shocking, too much going on. Now he had to protect his wife and his child, and someone was after them. Fury had only authorized a week off, to get rid of whatever he had to or to spend just a little time with his wife, so he was forced to leave Laura's side. But not before making a mess of the bathroom floor and going out to buy the necessary tools.

Laura had stood in the doorway while he worked, a hand over her still flat belly.

"Why do you always find a flaw in something right before you leave? Then I have to live with the mess and it bugs me. I feel like finishing it myself."

"Laura, darling, I just do. And you shouldn't do any hard work in your," here Clint looked up and pointed at her stomach, "condition."

"Uh-huh. Sure, whatever you say Hawk guy."

* * *

"Clint Barton. I really am glad you're here, I was getting close to sending out a STRIKE team to go get you." Phil Coulson said as a hello once Clint made it to SHIELD's Headquarters.

"Coulson, sir, good to see you too." Clint shook his handler's hand warmly. "A STRIKE team?"

"Yes, they're like SHIELD's Navy SEALs, they're usually a team and they go out on the hardest assignments. Fury's thinking of putting you in one, once you've.. uh-"

"Earned his trust?"

"I was trying to say it nicely, but yes, once you've earned his trust."

Clint almost frowned but decided to smile instead. "And how do I do that?"

"Complete your missions well, it might take him some time, though. He might make you go against your old employers, just you know, be loyal and he'll turn around." Phil explained in a good-natured tone. "Anyways, today's a big day. Your first assignment, here's the file," and Clint was handed a somewhat thick folder on one Reisa Kaidonovskya who was apparently trying to blow up the LA Convention Center.

"Am I supposed to-" Clint's voice cracked and he cleared his throat angrily. "Kill her, sir?" He looked at Coulson with a brave face, upturned eyebrows, as if he were waiting professionally when he felt anything but.

"I'm sorry, Barton, I didn't mean to upset you. Forgive me, I meant to tell you to just bring her in. Just an arrest, Clint, nothing more." Coulson's deliberate use of his first name went unnoticed and Clint felt his stance relax.

Dammit, this guilt, this hesitance, it would take a while to leave him. He needed to think of something else.

"My wife is pregnant." Clint blurted out and he chuckled at Coulson's surprise.

"Wife?!" Phil thought that if he had been eating he might have choked. "Pregnant?"

* * *

Clint completed the assignment without a hitch, and he was given a second one, then a third, all lasting a week and a half, give or take, all just bring-ins for questioning and incarceration. Fury told Coulson to give Agent Barton a little break, and Phil of course complied, telling Clint to tell his wife congratulations for him.

Clint tried to leave with dignity, tried leaving unhurriedly, though he amazingly failed, taking about eight minutes to get his stuff together and take a flight home. He was anxious to see her, to be with her, to hear her voice, to make her smile, to make sure she was safe and alive and well. He bit his knuckle, sighed, and finally leaned back on the airplane seat. Patience, all snipers had to have it and when he concentrated, he could wait for all eternity.

He wouldn't have to wait that long, thank God, and the plane landed and he took the subway as close as he dared to his neighborhood before making random turns and the like, just in case. But he made it home and she was there, with Cooper, and she almost ran into his arms before he could drop his duffel bag out of the way. He breathed in her scent, at once relaxing.

"Laura, I missed you," he said into her hair.

"I missed you too, Clint."

"Alright, lovebirds, get a freaking room, you're going to squish Junior," Cooper said with a smile from his chair, not surprised when they ignored him.

They separated and Clint beamed down at her, his hand going to her belly. "Gain some weight, honey?"

"Just a little bit, I'm starting the second trimester and I thankfully don't get nauseous so much anymore." Laura smiled holding his hand so he'd keep it on her stomach.

"And how's the government agent doing?" Cooper tried again and finally his cousin's husband turned to look at him and shook his hand, pulling him into a brotherly hug.

"Not bad, yourself?"

"Taking care of business, you know? Making sure Junior stays safe." Cooper nodded at Laura, who was starting to make lunch.

"Thanks, Coop, I'm not sure how we'd do it without you."

"You'd probably get along just fine. Hey, I know you just got here and everything, but there's something we need to talk about," Cooper took a breath and turned his face away from the kitchen. "It would probably be best if she didn't overhear."

Clint saw Laura making a delicious looking turkey bacon sandwich and his stomach growled but Cooper gave him a sharp look and he sighed.

"Alright, what is it?"

"Something's up. My main allies are grumbling about money disappearing, the trade market went down about a week ago, and there's someone who still wants to get to the family."

"The family."

"Yes, Clint, think. I have men watching this block, this building," and Cooper made a wide gesture towards the window of the living room in which he stood. "Even if I die, they won't move, I've made sure. She's safe, for now. But I'm telling you, there's someone out there who _knows_. He, she, it, I don't have a fucking clue but they _know_!" Cooper didn't raise his voice but the intensity and fury bled through so that Clint almost flinched.

"What do they know?"

"They never sniff around when you're here, they stay in the shadows, but your car leaves and-" Cooper ran a hand through his short but thick brown hair.

"Who's in the mood for lunch?" Laura called as she put plates on the table. "You're staying for lunch, Coop, you promised."

"Yes, I know." Suddenly, he was smiling at his cousin as if he weren't talking about a criminal being after her. Cooper moved towards the table but Clint stopped him, pulling him back by his arm.

"You think this is all connected? The market, the money, this... stalker?"

Cooper shook himself loose, pulling on his leather sleeve, frowning at Clint for the offense. "I don't know, man. What I do know, is that you need to stay close. A pregnant woman can't defend herself as easily or quickly as one who isn't. You need to take care of your family and you need to-"

"Hey, men at work, pregnant lady's hungry, I am not going to wait for you."

"Coming, coming." The men separated and went to help their pregnant lady set the table.

Laura felt their stress and searched their expressions for answers. They weren't angry at each other, they hardly ever were, but they were frustrated. When they met her searching gaze each smiled at her, and she knew they both loved her. Cooper as the brotherly cousin she had grown up with, Clint as the husband who would lay down his life for her and the life inside of her. This eased her concern because she knew it wasn't her who'd troubled them, but she appreciated that after her keen look of worry, both men tried to ease up on the frowns and chattered mindlessly and almost in a relaxed way.

And yet, when she went to bed that night, curled up on her side, encased in a warm hug by Clint, she couldn't shake off the feeling that something big was going to happen, the balance of power, order, whatever, something was shifting. The symptoms were starting to show.

 **AN: Hey, guys, thanks to DragonmasterJohn and Unterflieger for the reviews. You know, lately it's been kinda hard to write, I know this isn't as big as some other stories, but I'd really appreciate feedback and reviews. Tell me if you like it, who or what you want to see, I know there will be Avengers appearances, so.. Thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

9\. Russia

Clint managed to put the bathroom floor in place and he decided he liked it. Laura was a bit hesitant but it gave the bathroom a cleaner, modern look so she didn't mind it. Clint thought she looked very pregnant for 4 and a half months and she wasn't _yet_ starting to walk the pregnant waddle, though he didn't think she would take long.

He started buying stuff for her. A pillow he had seen in a store, that supposedly helped her? He wasn't sure but he bought it anyway. And the hard wooden kitchen chairs were layered with a lot of foam now, he had sewn them himself. Probably did a crappy job, but what the hell, Laura said it helped her sore bottom, and that's all that mattered. He also got her stretchy yoga pants, the ones with elastic, so they would continue to fit her even after she continued getting bigger.

The whole getting bigger thing concerned him. How big could a woman get?! Her whole front side was as big as a watermelon! He shuddered at the weird thought. Maybe not _that_ big. No more food comparisons, that was just weird.

Cooper was over a lot during his week off and Clint noticed that he carried two guns now, which really worried him. Cooper, rowdy as he was, was never paranoid. At first, Clint had been annoyed by his careless attitude, but then he had come to understand that Cooper wasn't careless, but that he could take care of himself and never worried because he never absolutely had to.

Now, though, instead of the occasional knife or a small .22 mm gun, he carried two .9 mm pistols. Cooper had never taken them out and actually showed them to him, but he could see the almost imperceptible, larger bulge they created where he had them holstered to his back. Cooper was worried. Clint was worried.

Oh and Coulson was worried too, he called on his last day home. Clint had been putting up blue tape on the kitchen wall because he decided he wanted to paint it a nicer color and Laura had already picked out what colors she wanted so he could start painting when he came back again. The phone rang and Cooper, ever making himself at home, answered cheerily.

"Hello! The man of the house is busy and his lady is resting so how can I help you?"

Clint was about to finish putting the last piece of tape down, and listened as Cooper argued with the person in the other end of the line.

"No you may not sir, until you tell me who _you_ are! - Why does it concern me? Why does it concern _you_ , sir? - _Sir_ , I beg your pardon! I withhold the right to answer your questions, _sir_!"

Clint was chuckling and he saw Cooper laughing quietly, covering the mouthpiece of the phone when he couldn't hold it in any longer, guffawing when Clint snatched the phone away.

"Hello?" Clint spoke into the phone.

"Barton! Thank God, who was that loony? I couldn't make him give you the phone." Coulson sounded a bit annoyed but not completely exasperated.

"Just a friend, sir."

"Nice friends you have, Barton. Voice recognition says he's Cooper Charles Rizzo. You know who he is?"

"I hope so, sir, he's practically been living in my house the past week." Clint answered and Coop made a face at him.

"You know, his uncle, Logan Rizzo, was a -"

"I don't want to know about his uncle, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because his uncle's daughter is my wife." Clint said icily and he saw Cooper grow serious.

"Alright. Well. I trust you can take care of yourself. The reason I called, Barton, is that there's a situation in Russia and you are one of the few available agents."

"You don't have any other guys there?"

"Not this time, unfortunately. I was hoping you would be able to take care of it?"

"What's the situation?"

"A gulag was raided by one of our teams two days ago and we need to know if it was successful."

"Where is this gulag, exactly?"

"In Russia. I think if I tell you where, you won't know."

"You wanna bet? I was a carnie for a long while, remember?"

"It's in-" and Coulson said some Russian city name with such a bad accent, Clint had no idea what he said.

"What?" Clint frowned.

"Exactly. So, do you think you could go?"

"Sir, my wife? She's pregnant. Almost five months now." He knew he sounded a little angry and he sighed. "How long would I have to be there?"

A short measure of silence on the other end of the line, then: "Honestly, I don't know. It really depends on what you find, and I'm sorry but I can't reveal any more information until you commit."

"Do I have - a choice?" He asked and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You do, and you always will. You pick your own operations, you call your own shots." Coulson said with righteous conviction.

Clint groaned and ran a hand through his hair. He turned to look towards his room, where he knew Laura was taking a nap.

"I really need you for this mission but I understand if you say no."

Clint looked down, hating himself for what he was going to say. "I'll go."

* * *

So here he was, with Rumlow and three other guys, nearing the gulag on a white, camouflaged Hummer, each wearing tactical suits underneath heavy jackets. It wasn't literally freezing his nose off cold, but it was cold, and Clint was glad he had accepted taking the jacket.

The guys were quiet and Clint for once didn't mind the silence. His previous experience with Rumlow was still fresh in his memory and he much preferred silence to having to interact with the uptight, obviously once military, serious agent.

The gulag wasn't impressive. They searched the place, carrying assault rifles, with little flashlights attached to them so they could see in the dark and abandoned prison. Whatever raid had happened here it had not been good and before long the STRIKE team found, much to Clint's distaste, a bunch of people lying dead on the ground.

"Sir, it appears the raid was unsuccessful." Rumlow spoke, Clint had already seen the little device in his ear, and whoever was listening asked a question. Rumlow searched the dead for ID tags and turned over the ones on their stomachs. Clint saw the matching jackets and the matching eagle insignia that he, too, had on the sleeve of his, and he got a sick feeling in his stomach.

"No, sir, Amador isn't here." Rumlow spoke again when he was done looking.

And that was that. They returned to their Hummer, got extracted about 30 miles away from the gulag and when they got to SHIELD'S Headquarters Clint went his way to find Coulson and the Team went their own way to whomever they reported to.

When Clint finally found Coulson in his office, he sat down in a chair by the door and sighed loudly. Coulson looked up from his paper rustling for a second but continued checking documents.

"How did it go, Barton?"

Clint just looked around the office. Coulson's was not surprisingly, very clean and organized, a bookshelf on one wall, archives lined up in - was it, really? Yep, alphabetical order. Then the desk. Big, dark wood, very fancy. Each pen in its own designated spot, neat stacks of paper and folders.

"Why was I in Russia?" Instead of answering, he asked with a hard voice.

Coulson looked up, when he heard the tone in his voice. "The gulag you went to, was owned by a man who trafficked alien artifacts. We don't know why he had the gulag, so I organized a team to raid it. We didn't receive word for a few days and I sent you along with that STRIKE Team to find out what happened to the first team and by extension, what happened in the gulag."

Clint nodded after receiving the information. "There was nobody there. The other SHIELD agents you sent before, they were dead. Rumlow mentioned something about Amador?"

"Akela Amador. She was a good agent, and now, I have no choice but to presume her dead."

Clint saw the sadness in Coulson's eyes, the discreet way they hid disappointment, the way his lips were slightly down turned, and decided he wouldn't press for information. The exchange of words in conversation stopped there, with Clint writing and completing a full report on the mission and then leaving his handler to grieve almost peacefully on his own.

 **AN:** Please, please, please review. Thank you for reading, I'd like to know what you're thinking.


	10. Chapter 10

10\. Taken

Thoughtful on the way home, and relieved he was going home alive and not in a body bag, Clint almost didn't notice he had a shadow. Almost. The thing about people following him, was that sometimes they just wanted to watch him, what he did, where he lived, who he talked to, other times they only wanted to kill him, but they were always a pain in the neck.

He backtracked, and randomly sat down to spend time on a bench. He got up and pretended to wait for a taxi, then he turned around and went underground for the subway. Before he knew it, he had wasted one hour of his time making sure he had lost this guy. Aww, hell, an hour he could have spent with Laura.

When he finally made it to his building, he looked up at the surrounding rooftops, at the many windows along the street, at the alleys between buildings, at the cars passing, the ones parked in front of buildings. The more he thought about it, the more Clint began to realize that he wasn't liking the city. He had the money to live in it very comfortably, being a mercenary for as long as he'd been had made sure of that. Maybe his father's farm - nope. It was Cooper's paranoia making him think like this. Clint made his way inside and up to the apartment.

A lonely key in his pocket made easy work of the locked door and Clint stepped inside, already half-smiling. His smile dropped, replaced by a frown as he gazed at his ravaged apartment. A chair had been knocked over, the foam torn and loitering the carpeted floor. The cushions of the sofa had been slashed, one of Laura's plants had been thrown across the room, the pot broken and dirt as dark as her hair had spilled.

Clint took out his Glock, having left his bow with Coulson, aww, bow. Dammit, he would never leave it there again. He walked further into the apartment, for once in his life scared of being in his safe house. Scared because he didn't want to find her cold, lifeless, scared because he wouldn't be able to protect her.

The bathroom had been untouched, the extra room that had been about to be turned into a nursery, the one he'd already started planning about, was completely empty. His feet felt heavy, but his arms, his hands didn't tremble as he held his gun, dreading whatever he might find in their room. He burst inside, the door almost bouncing off the wall. She wasn't here. The bed was a mess, the mattress ripped and on the floor, the covers looked as if they'd been hastily thrown aside. The nightstand looked bare, its drawers broken, their contents searched through. Clothes had been thrown out of the closet, a box of pictures spilt. Some with him and Laura together were on the nightstand. Someone had spent a few minutes looking at them.

Clint sighed and lowered his gun. He stepped over covers and clothing, wanting to see the pictures closer. Perspective. Seeing better from a distance. He wanted Laura to be alive, to be safe. He wanted his baby to have a nice childhood. Clint picked up one of the pictures, one depicting a beaming Laura holding a large stuffed panda as he kissed her on the cheek with a smile. That had been about three months after their wedding. He'd taken her to the carnival and won a whole bunch of prizes just for her. And now, he had no fucking clue where she was and what happened to her. He turned the picture over and angry, red writing screamed up at him.

WATCH YOUR HEAD.

Clint turned to the window at the same time it shattered and he lunged to the ground, but he was too late. He pulled out the dart that had been shot into his arm, a single drop of blood oozing out. He stood up, running and covering his head with his arms as he heard bullets tearing up the walls. The dart had already injected tranquilizer into his blood stream. His vision was getting blurry. It was strong stuff, he thought incoherently. He collapsed.

* * *

 **AN: This one was short, I know. And the suspense, right? The last chapter was slightly crossovered with AoS, in case anyone noticed. I hope you're enjoying it so far!**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: This one's a little longer than usual, I wanted to get somewhere. And it's also a little dark, so... trigger warnings, domestic abuse, and general violence, umm.. yeah.**

* * *

11\. Cooper

When Clint woke up, he was in a metal chair, his head hanging limply. He remained in the uncomfortable position they'd put him in, his hands cuffed and resting on the backside of the chair, whilst his feet were tied together. He made sure his breathing was deep and relaxed, feigning to be unconscious still. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and saw a circle of light on and around him, everything else was dark and frightfully blurry. The drugs were still affecting him. Knowing he could get out of the handcuffs, Clint raised his head, groaning, and rolled his shoulders to stretch out his back and all the tight muscles in his neck and arms.

Two more beams of light came on and he saw Cooper trying to rest on his knees, not quite reaching the floor, his arms hanging from chains. He was in a bad shape, his face swollen, his bottom lip bleeding, they'd beaten him, his dress shirt was stained. He turned his head to the other spotlight and saw Laura gagged and tied to another chair, but thankfully unharmed. Anger hardened Clint's blue eyes and he glared at the darkness.

"Turn on the lights, coward. I promise I won't hurt you." He was lying, of course. He was going to make sure whoever was responsible for this _hurt_ like they'd never hurt before.

"Promise?" A mocking voice bounced around the dark warehouse. "I once heard a man say promises are lies."

Aww, hell, they'd set up a sound system, he couldn't tell where the voice came from when it was being emmitted by surround speakers.

"I usually keep my promises." Clint kept talking, thinking. He tried moving his feet, but the thin ropes held.

"The keyword, I think, being _usually_. Am I right?"

"Look, you probably already know my name, you know where I live, you know my wife, you know her friend over there. What the hell do you want?"

"I want to see you broken. I want to see you helpless, on the floor, watching as what is most dear to you leaves you forever." The voice snarled, and Clint thought that if he could make them talk just a little more he could almost recognize the voice.

"That's very specific." He thought for a second. "Have we met before?"

Silence. Then the sound of someone sliding down a rope? Maybe a pole? Footsteps coming from behind him.

And suddenly there was a blade pressed up against his throat, and he winced at the pain, sure that he was already bleeding.

"Should I kill your pretty, pregnant wife first? Or let my men continue hurting the cousi-?"

Before the man finished Clint brought his head back angrily, smashing into the other's nose. He heard the crack and blood dripping.

"You son of a bitch! You'll pay for that!" The man was now yelling in a voice Clint hadn't heard in years. It couldn't be him.

"Bring her over here!" The man said, still behind Clint, who squinted through a blurry vision as they dragged Laura out of her chair. She kicked a guy in the shin and elbowed another in the stomach.

"Don't! Honey, it's not-" Clint got punched across the face and he groaned, welcoming the pain for his foolishness. "Worth it." He finished with a whisper. Looking up again, he found his vision was getting better, and Laura was standing in front of him, beside his offender. He was hiding his face, the bastard, wearing a black hood with holes for his eyes and mouth.

"Hey, asshole! Purple dinosaur! I'm not done with you yet, leave her alone!" Cooper spoke hoarsely from his corner, but with bravado.

"I'm not done with _you,_ yet!" The offender said to Clint and punched him again in the jaw before grabbing his shoulders to knee him in the stomach.

Clint doubled over, gasping, and once he'd caught his breath, he could see well again. He felt gentle fingers caress his hair and face and he raised his gaze to Laura's frightened one. But she was pushed away by the man with _his_ voice.

"You went off the radar, bab -" The man cleared his throat. "Barton," Purple Dinosaur finally spat out. "We was worried about you, and so we came looking for you."

The man kneeled in front of him, but Clint looked away, turning his face towards his chained Cooper instead. "Look. At. Me. When I talk to you. I'd hate to hurt her."

Clint brought his knees up and kicked the man in the chest. As the man fell, he swung the hand holding the blade, aiming to regain his balance but instead slicing through the bindings around Clint's ankles. Clint stood from the chair and jumped, getting his cuffed hands under his feet and in front of him just as Purple Dino charged at him, the wickedly sharp blade outstretched before him.

Clint dodged, but still got a shallow slash on his arm.

"What did you tell that CEO in Miami? 26 years old? Wasn't that your _brother's_ age when you left him to die? How old are you really?"

"I was never much good at math." Clint retorted and faced Purple Dinosaur. "Add eight to 26, bagged face."

The man lunged at Clint again, but he was expecting it and he tangled his handcuffs' small chain around the knife, simultaneously kicking him in the groin. Clint threw himself onto the man and brought him crashing to the ground. The man's head hit the cemented floor and Clint heard him groan.

"Tell your men to cut off her ropes," he whispered menacingly down to the man, pressing the knife against the guy's sternum.

The man coughed, groaning again. "Go to hell."

Clint slammed down his elbow on the man's ribs and the guy cried out in pain. "Tell your men to cut off her ropes and let Cooper go." He applied more pressure on the knife and it easily made the man bleed.

"You think they won't turn their guns on you." The man said with the voice that Clint had once thought had had a pleasant intonation.

"I think - you think they won't turn their guns on _you_ once they discover how pathetic, useless, and gutless you are." Dark emotion broiled in Clint's voice and his ire made his eyes water. "Tell them, or this knife digs into your windpipe and they'll have to lean in close to hear your voice."

"Let the trafficker loose and cut the woman's ropes." Barney groaned when Clint applied even more pressure on the knife. "Be gentle!"

Clint kept his once beloved brother on the ground, moving the knife underneath the hood, pressed up against Barney's jugular, as he heard his brother's men moving around. Once Laura was free, she ran towards Clint but stopped within a meter.

"Help Cooper, Laura, please." Clint said without looking up from a blue gaze that was almost identical to his, and Laura quickly went to her cousin's side.

Barney's men lowered the chains and Cooper would have fallen over as his knees touched the ground, if it hadn't been for Laura, who allowed him to heavily lean on her as his arms were freed from iron cuffs.

"Now, you miserable bag of purple dinosaur shit," Clint spoke, "I assume you killed anyone who might have been watching my apartment, which means I'm probably alone. So _you_ are going to tell me how to get out of here, and if you try anything, I swear I'll make sure you stay dead this time."

"Sure, baby brother, whatever you say." Barney coughed again. "Clint, all those years you were playing marksman without me, I was FBI, man. I had a good run there. You should have seen, we were looking for you, before your file went to bigger people. CIA, then what are they called? SHIELD?"

"Shut up! Tell me, which way out?" Clint said, his voice laced with desperation.

"Is there a way out, baby brother? You know when Dad was beating the hell out of us, what was our way out? Remember! We didn't have one! Remember? Do you remember, Clint?!"

"Yes! Yes-yes-yes! I remember! I remember how he would hit you until you couldn't talk! I remember hiding with you, in the closet, under the bed! I remember how you would step out so he wouldn't find me!" Clint finished, furious that remembering made him cry. He always managed to finish with a silent tear, maybe, when Laura asked him about his family and he said the truth. But he hated that his brother had elicited such a reaction from him. "I remember! And I thought you were dead! My big brother, my friend, my ally, dead, along with Lynch!"

"You left me in that roof to die!" Barney leaned up from below Clint to shout in his face. "You abandoned me!"

Clint stood up off of Barney and brought his still cuffed hands to his face. "No, no, no, no! I saw him shoot you! It's not... possible." How was he going to live with himself if he knew that he'd left his brother behind?

Barney stood as well and took off his hood, so Clint would know it was really him. He approached Clint slowly, reaching into his pocket, but Clint looked up, still holding on to the knife with his left hand and backed away, the blade out in front of him.

"Hey easy, bro," Barney held out a peacemaking hand, then fished out a small key from his pocket. "For your handcuffs," he said as he tossed them to Clint, who caught it easily and quickly made work of the small iron restraints.

As Clint tossed them away, another man stepped into the light. He was dressed nicely, with a thick and expensive coat that almost reached his knees. The man was wearing white makeup that covered his entire face and had painted black arched eyebrows and black paint around his eyes.

"Well, what a wonderful family reunion!" The man said, way too happily, in a Polish accent. "And if it isn't THE Hawkeye! The one that's foiled so many plans. Well done, older Barton. The Clown is very happy!"

The Clown, however, didn't look happy, as he had a black tear painted on his face and he looked very hot and uncomfortable in the long coat.

"Kingpin, and the Owl and all those fools will certainly pay a pretty price for your head, Hawkeye! However, you are worth more alive, haha, maybe they'll teach ye some manners!"

A light shone at them through an overhead window and Clint turned to see the source. A black shape in the sky and spinning blades identified it as a helicopter. Then, the sound of shattered glass as windows were broken and guys in raiding uniform dropped in through ropes. The main doors of the hangar opened and all the lights suddenly came on, exposing his handler at the lead of a charge of SHIELD agents.

Clint ran towards Laura and Cooper just as the shoot out began. Laura was still holding Cooper up and he sort of tackled them both so they'd be in the ground as the Clown's men began firing at Coulson and all the other agents. Gunshots, louder than his bow, louder than the lonely gun he usually carried.

"What's going on?" Cooper said weakly from the ground and Laura hushed him gently, her hands holding his as Clint shielded her with his body.

Clint looked up when he heard a particular cry of pain, the Clown had shot Barney and his brother was falling to the ground.

He kept watching, willing his brother to get up. But he didn't. Looking around desperately, Clint saw a pistol about 10 feet away from him. Crawling close to the ground as bullets whizzed above him, he made his way to the gun, anxious and angry. Holding it confidently, he pulled the hammer down and aimed at the fleeing Clown's running legs. He wouldn't kill him. But he would make sure he couldn't escape easily. He'd avenge his brother.

But the Clown wasn't there.

He swiveled around, the bullets were slowing, an "All secure!" sounded, but the Clown had disappeared. Cooper was now standing beside him, looking determined and in pain but brave and strong, having managed to walk all the way to him.

"Clint. You take care of my sister. I'm glad she has you." Cooper spoke earnestly, hanging on to Clint by his shoulders. Clint's blue eyes met his cousin's brown ones and Cooper looked away, up, behind him.

Cooper shoved him roughly to the ground... A gunshot sounded, echoing... and Cooper fell backwards... Laura screamed... Clint stood, turned and pulled the trigger... the Clown fell out a window.

Clint kneeled beside Cooper, taking in the sight of red blossoming in his chest through his shirt.

Cooper grabbed his arm weakly, meeting his eyes bravely, resigned to the fate he had caused himself. "Clint... don't let her grieve too long... take her out of the city... keep her safe. Tell me you will."

"Of course. You know I'd do anything for her." Clint swallowed thickly, and watched in helplessness as Cooper's gaze went blank, and he succumbed to eternal sleep.

He hung his head. His shoulders began to shake and he cried shamelessly for the cousin who'd accepted him, loved him like a brother, and given up his life for Clint's. And when Laura kneeled beside him, tears already spilling down her cheeks, he took her in his arms and let her sob into his chest.

Kneeling on the dirty cement floor, they cried together, hanging on to each other.

Even after Coulson had secured the hangar, and an ambulance had taken the barely alive Barney, Clint was still holding on to Laura and Laura holding on to him.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: The last chapter was sad, I know. I really liked Cooper, but I hope you guys like this one regular piece of Clint's life.**

* * *

12\. Four Months Later

The funeral had been morose, like all funerals, like his mother's funeral. A hot, sunny day at a nameless cemetery, Laura in a lovely black dress that was still comfortable for her, holding his hand as she wept. The Rizzos had pretended to be sad. They had never liked Cooper because he had a mind of his own. The older aunts and uncles had wanted things a certain way, had wanted spineless, thoughtless puppets. So Cooper's younger brothers had betrayed him, betrayed his clients, rich clients that had numerous shares and funds in the stock market. Thankfully, the Rizzos didn't resent Laura because she had stepped down from the hierarchy, stepped away, and Clint now saw the wisdom in her actions.

Clint followed Cooper's dying wish and told Laura they needed to move away, to a quieter place. She had agreed, albeit while in a depressed and subdued state. And a few days after the funeral, they packed up, and Clint drove 1135 miles to Waverly, Iowa, Laura choosing not to tell anyone where they were headed. It was a very long 18 hours, stopping for food and restrooms and once even at a truck stop so Clint could sleep.

The old farmhouse, and the barn, had looked very bad, kinda shitty, to be honest, and they had had to sleep in the car the first night. But Clint quickly got to work, for Laura's sake, and by the second night, the "master" bedroom was clean and they'd gone in to town to buy a bed and the mattresses. He'd been jumpy all night on the new bed because the place was saturated with things that triggered nasty remembrances. His sleep was troubled anyways with nightmares and other bullcrap and he knew only Laura's embrace and soothing murmurs had been able to lull him back to sleep inside the big farmhouse.

The first two weeks had been busy, cleaning, remodeling, having to rebuild a few walls, the porch. The house looked good now, Clint had spent his waking hours working and Laura had spent hers trailing behind him as he worked first in the kitchen and bathrooms, then the guest rooms and the majority of the upstairs. It gave them time to each other, time to distract themselves and ultimately, time to heal.

Coulson had reluctantly called him back for duty and he'd unwillingly left Laura's side to present himself in Washington DC again. Coulson had been glad to see him, and had told him that all the agents who'd been to the hangar where Cooper... They hadn't seen Laura. Clint had no idea how, but she was still off the records. Of course, the Clown had survived and escaped, and his brother was in a hospital. Coulson told him he could visit if he wanted to, but Clint had paused and finally said no.

Then he'd been sent to unalive someone in Peru. A terrorist who'd decided to flee the country and continue his work somewhere else. So Clint went after him, and when he'd loaded his bow with a very piercing arrow equipped with a steel tip, he didn't hesitate.

He returned to SHIELD, completed the tedious report, specifying what he'd done and all the procedures he had been lectured about from Coulson and then without rest he was sent to India. Just a quick look around for another dangerous wannabe hoodlum looking to bring down the Indian government and move to China to do the same there. Clint thought the idea was not only improbable but ludicrous, as well.

"Yeah, seems unlikely he could get away with that. But this guy has the money, weapons, and allies to do it," Coulson had patiently explained.

So he was a genuine threat. Clint had finished off that guy too. He couldn't say he was _glad_ he was doing it. But he was... _reassured_ , that he was doing it for the greater good. They were bad guys and now he was a good guy and in the end, he was making sure that there were less bad guys in the world.

Finally though, he was allowed back to the farmhouse, to a bigger Laura. He'd taken her out to eat in town and she had smiled and waddled her cute way about, looking radiant and healthy and beautiful.

Now, the big house was their home, a safe haven to forge new memories and to raise the baby on the way. It was still hard to believe, even though Laura had been pregnant for almost the nine months, it was hard to accept and process. She was ready though, their room had the crib set up and everything, they had baby blankets, the car seat, they were ready... But he still couldn't believe it.

* * *

Coulson called for him again, urgent business in Chicago.

"Barton, thanks for getting here so quickly. I know right now is hardly a good time for you," his handler addressed him hurriedly, closing the door of his office after himself.

Clint chuckled. "You can say that again. So, what's up this time?" He sat, leaning back comfortably.

"There's a bomb about to be placed inside a skyscraper in Chicago with a four-mile impact radius, it could literally flatten the city. Now, there's a wealthy businessman, John Barnecue, who's in charge of the whole operation and smuggling arms out of the country, as well, arming very dangerous people and terrorist groups."

"Yeah, so he's dangerous, and the world is better if he's not alive anymore. Got it."

"Intel puts him in Chicago in two days." Coulson leaned against his own desk, crossing his arms, urgent and serious.

"Sure, no worries, I'll get him." Clint stood, thinking of riding the awesome SHIELD Quinjet, but Coulson stopped him.

"How's Laura?"

"Ah, well, she's okay, she's healthy. Maybe another three weeks until the baby's due." The truth was Laura was not sleeping well, and she complained of her waist starting to hurt, and these early contractions that surprised her sometimes. But for the most part she was alright. Babies are hard, apparently.

"I'm coming with you, I know you've been going alone, but if it's alright with you.." Coulson paused, gathering some papers and a folder.

"Sure, man, the Quinjet pilot's usually too quiet, anyway."

So Clint and Coulson went to Chicago, they set up shop at a hotel room and he scouted the city, and he waited for the guy. Coulson's intel was always reliable so they had a little chill time while he waited. Then, when he found the terrorist businessman, at the guy's skyscraper, and when he was out on an adjacent roof, with a loaded bow, the skies opened. Aww, rain. It was pouring. He was glad he had brought his jacket, faux leather, but it was nice and it did the trick. Sure, it wasn't as nice as having your own freaking building with your freaking last name on the side, but it kept him warm, at the very least.

Clint wiped the water off his face as raindrops fell on him, wetting his hair and streaming down his face almost delicately. He watched the man walk through the living room-style lobby of his office, talking anxiously on the phone. The man fumbled with his tie, gesturing, and Clint saw the anger in his mannerisms. How easy, it would be, to let the arrow soar through the falling rain, to interrupt a conversation. He almost let go of the string restricting the arrow's flight when he saw the man hang up and then a little boy came into the room on short, toddler-y chubby legs. The man stooped to pick up the little one, carrying him out of his sight.

Clint relaxed instantly, lowering his bow. He imagined the warmth inside the man's private office, the care he offered for the child and suddenly the rain didn't feel delicate anymore, but chilling and hostile.

Clint got down from the roof, a little sad for some reason. He got to the hotel and Coulson was waiting for him, sitting on a bed with his laptop on his knees.

"Coulson. That guy is still alive." Clint blurted and he dropped his equipment next to his bed.

"Yeah, I know. I just got a call from Hill. Fury is not thrilled with this man's continued existence but she told me that, surprisingly and quite suddenly, Barnecue, had the whole thing cancelled and the bomb was taken property by Tony Stark."

Clint stopped moving, looking away and rubbing the back of his head, and Coulson saw his agent agitated. Coulson sighed and he thought about asking him what was bothering him so greatly, but then he saw Clint was wet and he'd probably get sick from the sudden rain and the cold seeping into his bones.

"Take a shower, Clint. It's late, and we have an early flight tomorrow."

Clint nodded, and followed Coulson's advice.

The next morning, they were having breakfast and hotel coffee, quiet but not uncomfortable. Coulson was a morning person, he was easily wide awake and ready to tackle the day with vigor. Clint, on the other hand, took a little while for his brain to wake up and start working, but by the time he took a sip of his coffee, he was functioning well enough.

"So why'd you abort?"

Clint looked at Coulson over the rim of his Styrofoam cup, as he drank. Then he put his cup down and met Coulson's gaze, his expression guarded. "You said I could make my own calls."

"Yes, I did," Coulson answered easily. "I was only asking why."

Clint turned his gaze downward to the warm brown of his coffee. "The man had a kid with him. I couldn't do it. Not with the little boy there. I just - I couldn't."

He only hoped that if anyone came after him, they would show the same mercy to his family.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Nikolaos, my sincere thanks. And also, I hope this wasn't too uneventful for the rest of you O:-) Enjoy!**

* * *

13\. Homesick

Clint woke quietly in his bed, registering the light in the room that could only come from snow on the ground outside. Laura was sleeping soundly next to him, her deep breaths relaxed and steady. But he knew she would easily wake if he made any noise. Funny, her sleep was so much lighter ever since they'd come back from the hospital with the baby.

Clint stood anyway with soft movements, stretching silently as he moved to the baby's crib on bare feet. Looking down at the tiny human sleeping undisturbed, he felt a deep love rush through him for his little son. Laura and he had agreed on a name at the last minute. Cooper William Barton. Clint thought it sounded nice. He gently held the baby's miniscule hand in his own, filled with a sense of wonder and pride even as he smiled tenderly down at his son.

Then his smile turned sad, and he sighed. He had no idea how he was going to muster the will to leave Laura and this baby for work.

But first, he was going to fix the squeaky door in the bathroom.

* * *

He finally returned to work though, and he was surprised when Coulson told him that Fury wanted him on the STRIKE Team.

"So, I've earned his trust now?" Clint asked with a small smile as he sat on Coulson's desk, swinging his legs.

"Yes, enough to put you with other agents with the assurance you won't get them killed." Coulson was sitting in his chair, cleaning his gun meticulously.

"Come on, Coulson, I wouldn't get them killed. Maybe hurt, maimed, broken fingernail, but not killed. Have a little faith."

"Sure, I have faith in you. You haven't turned out too bad. Yet."

Clint turned to look at his handler, questioning whether or not the man was being serious. To his surprise, Coulson looked up at him with a teasing smile.

"Ha-ha. Very funny. So I know Brock Rumlow leads the Team. I'm guessing there's a hierarchy? A food chain?"

"There isn't a food chain, Barton. I will personally see to it that you aren't eaten."

Clint stood, stretching his arms arms above his head.

"You already went to Russia with them, Barton, I don't know why you're nervous."

"Come on, man. I'm not nervous, it's just that I work better alone. That's all."

"Ramirez is a good man, Hansen is patient with the rookies, and Rollins you know is-"

"Mean spirited and with a permanent scowl, just like Rumlow, who only smiles at, what's his face? Sitwell! Why can't I just be like Hill or Morse or-"

"Phil!" A woman stormed into the office, her dark hair swirling about.

"Hey, Melinda May is in the house, Coulson! See, like her, why can't I be on my own?" Clint gestured towards the woman, moving to a chair out of her way.

"Hi, Barton. Phil, I came to talk about the Inhuman."

"Please, not now, I'm trying to convince Barton to accept being on the STRIKE Team." Coulson finished with his gun and tucked it back into the waistband of his trousers out of habit.

May turned to Barton with a smile. "Nice, a promotion! Good for you, Barton."

"Thanks." Clint said, not enthused.

"Now what was it about Belyakov?" Coulson asked, turning his full attention towards May.

"She's gone on a killing spree, and she has her daughter with her. I'm just waiting for a confirmed location on her."

"Hey, May? Will you come visit me at the med bay whenever the STRIKE Team beats the hell out of me? Then I'll have a witness to convince Coulson _not_ to put me on the team."

"Barton, stop whining." Coulson said nonchalantly.

"I'm not whining." Clint crossed his arms.

"Alright, listen. A team is safer than going solo, Barton," Coulson spoke reasonably, sincerely wanting to help the younger agent.

"I don't _care_ about safety, Coulson." Now even Clint could admit he was whining.

"Well you better start caring. If you want to come back unharmed, you better at least _try_ to make this Team work out for you because out there, - Barton."

"Yes, Coulson, I'm listening." Clint had an annoyed look crossing his features but he was still paying attention to Coulson's words.

"Phil, I'll be coming back later. Congrats, Barton."

"Thanks, May. See ya."

"I'll see you later, Mellie." Coulson crossed his arms and leaned back on his desk once May left his office, discreetly closing the door behind her. "All I'm saying, is that out there, running ops, playing sniper for the rest of the STRIKE Team, there's going to be gunfire, people hating you because you're SHIELD now, and I'm not always going to be out there on the other side of an earpiece."

"Right. So I better watch my back with these guys. Got it."

"That's not what I meant!" Coulson finally exploded. "If anything goes to shit _they_ are the only ones who'll be able to help you! Remember how I once told you we take care of our own? I'm trying to-!" Coulson shut his eyes in exasperation. He didn't want to sound like a controlling babysitter. "I'm giving you options." He said more quietly and opened his eyes again with a quiet sigh. "Teams are safer. It's all I was trying to say."

"Fine." Clint drew out the word with unhappiness. "But if Fury has to appear before the Council because I got shot, it ain't my fault." And he smiled to let his handler know he wasn't angry.

"Just be careful, Agent. You guys head out in two hours."

"Yessir."

So Clint headed out of Coulson's office and got into an elevator. The doors dinged and he was on the STRIKE floor. Clint made his way to his room, typing in his passcode and placed his bow reverently on the table beside the door. Sitting on his sofa with a sigh, he decided to make a phonecall to his lady and teeny Coop.

The phone rang twice before a groggy sounding Laura answered.

"Mmhello?"

"Hi, honey. Sorry if I woke you."

Laura yawned into the phone. "S'okay, I have to go out for firewood anyways, the snow finally stopped."

"Alright, just be careful. I put it out beside the porch."

"Yeah, okay. How are you?"

"I'm- I'm good. We'll just see how it goes." Clint suddenly felt fiercely homesick. "How's baby Barton?"

"He's fine." And Clint heard the smile in her words. "He's sleeping a lot, wakes up to nurse and then he's out like a light. I wonder where he got that from."

Clint chuckled. "Yeah, certainly not from me. Hey, I love you."

"I love you too, Clint. Just- be careful for me okay? For us."

"Yes ma'am. Take care and tell the baby his dad misses him."

"I will. Be good, okay?"

"Aww, Laury... No promises." Clint smiled when she laughed softly.

"Okay... Bye, Clint. Come home soon."

"I will.. bye."

His heart felt heavy as he hung up and he leaned his head on his hands, closing his eyes with a pained expression.

Clint sighed, the feeling of heaviness souring his mood. He'd just have to get used to it, like everything else.

He knew Coulson was getting the paperwork ready that would put Clint on the Team, but would let him continue to be his handler. Sitwell didn't know how to handle agents on a personal basis, and he only just barely took care of the guys on STRIKE, preferring to oversee their work from Headquarters, from the Triskelion.

Well, Coulson could do paperwork while he bothered him. And so Clint got up with more energy and enthusiasm than he felt, grabbed his bow and headed back down to Coulson's office.

* * *

 **AN: Mellia Bee, I can't express enough appreciation. Your reviews made my day! I'm so glad you've been liking the story and thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

14\. Grounded

Okay, this looked bad. He'd known it was going to be a bad idea, he just hadn't expected it to be _this_ bad. He moved and everything hurt, so he just groaned and leaned his bandaged head against the wall facing Fury's office. The door was closed and the windows tainted so he couldn't see inside but he could very clearly imagine Sitwell and Fury listening to the STRIKE Team complain about him. He just picked at the new bandages on his arms.

At first, it hadn't been that bad. Just a mildly explosive negotiation after some duchess had been kidnapped and Clint had been doing pretty well. He'd been ordered by Rumlow to go on a roof, "play sniper with the bow, and stay out of the goddamn way," which he had obeyed and he was pretty proud of himself because he saved everyone's lives with five arrows. The team had imploded into a safehouse, while he had looked at them through the windows, and heard the angry orders and curses through an earpiece. He thought he was doing a good job. Until one of the kidnappers had seen him and shot at him. He'd fallen off the roof and onto a lower balcony and he'd hit his head and the lights had gone out for a second.

"Barton, please stop fidgeting with the bandages. They are meant to keep your wounds clean." Oh yeah, he couldn't wait to hear Fury yell at Coulson.

"Yes, sir." Clint sighed loudly.

"It wasn't your fault." Coulson half turned beside Clint to face his agent.

"I know."

"And whatever Fury says, you're still my agent."

Clint chuckled at the possessive tone in Coulson's voice. "Okay. . . I told you they didn't like me."

"Yeah, well, not a lot of people liked Captain America before he was Captain America."

"Captain America?"

"Yes."

"Seriously, sir?" Clint couldn't believe Coulson's dreamy expression.

"You have a problem with Captain America?" And Coulson's look turned murderous.

"No, not at all, it's just that-"

The door to Fury's office opened just then and the STRIKE Team filed out, some glancing at Coulson but none of them acknowledged Clint. After them came Sitwell, who met Clint's gaze chillingly and Clint got a nasty feeling just looking at them. They were dangerous. And not just a danger to the bad guys, no, he felt he was in danger if he ever got in their way too.

He wondered if Captain America had felt the same way everytime he'd gotten beat up by bullies.

They were their own little sect, and he wondered just how loyal they were to SHIELD and to Fury. Clint was willing to bet they belonged to the Council first. Carter had mentioned something once about loyalties.

Coulson straightened beside him. "It's our turn, come on," so Clint followed him inside the office.

"You are both a pair of lucky men. Be glad nothing happened to the Duchess or I'd have you declared before the Council killed in action and make you disappear," Fury stared at them once the door was closed, freezing Clint in his spot with only one eye.

"Sir, I can assure you, -" Coulson began but Fury sent him a sharp look and he stopped talking.

Fury turned back to scrutinize Clint. "Agent Barton, I understand playing sniper is a difficult task."

"Sir?" Clint forced himself to keep still.

"You were ordered to remain at your post and stay out of the way. So tell me, why did you interfere?"

"Sir, I saw that the team was in danger and I acted. I apologize for any rash actions and for the chaos after I fired the arrows."

Fury just looked impassively at him and Clint felt he and his words were being assessed, so he just stood there and met Fury's gaze evenly.

"Barton you're dismissed. You can wait for Agent Coulson in his office."

"Yes, sir."

Clint walked past Coulson, shooting an apologetic glance at his handler, and quietly closed the door behind himself. He walked down the hallway, pensive but not remorseful, heading to the elevator again.

Once the doors closed with smooth precision, he jumped up and pushed hard on the elevator's "ceiling" and crawled out, leaving the elevator empty of his presence. As it moved up, he jumped again onto a ledge in the elevator chute, grabbing the hard cables to pull himself into the small vent hole. Smirking to himself, Clint crawled through the vents and couldn't help but think of Bruce Willis. He followed the maze that was the ventilation system and finally got to a grate that overlooked an empty corridor. He kicked it open and winced at the metallic rattle as he jumped down into the corridor.

He appreciated that Coulson had let him wander the big building by himself from time to time because he had found these lonely set of stairs that went up to open air. It was high, high above DC around him below, and he could see Arlington and the Washington monument in the distance. It was cold up here and he took a deep breath of icy air, letting it sharpen his senses.

There was a section of the building here that made a good bench-like seat but he preferred sitting on the ledge of the building itself, his feet hanging over empty space.

He loved the view from such a high place. It was almost peaceful and it was so much better than looking from the ground up. It made all the bruises and scratches and bandages seem like nothing.

Clint thought that he hadn't done anything wrong, after all, they had managed to save the duchess and nobody on the team got hurt except for himself. But the whole ordeal just made him prefer working alone even more than before. He was disappointed the team hadn't worked out and he mindlessly twirled around one of his arrows.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard someone coming up the stairs that led to his hiding place. Coulson appeared holding a folder.

"So this is where you sneak off to?"

"Yup."

"You don't even look surprised."

"Coulson, sir, sooner or later I knew you'd find this place."

Coulson chuckled and sat behind and to the right of Clint. He didn't mind heights, but he much rathered being a safe enough distance away from the edge of a building.

"So what did Fury say?"

"Well, you're grounded."

At this, Clint frowned in confusion and turned around to look at Coulson. "Why?"

"So that Sitwell isn't nagging that you don't get disciplined when you step out of line. Also, you won't be working in the team anymore. If they need a sniper, and you want to, you can work periodically alongside them, but you got what you want."

"I get to go solo? Yes! Phil, you're the best, can I call you Phil? I'm gonna call you Phil."

"You're still grounded."

"But now I have a room in the STRIKE floor as my own team. And besides, Phil, I'm sure they're headed out right now, right? They'll be gone and I get to stay on base and do as I please without getting glared at by those stuck-up morons."

"Technically, you're not your own team. And you're going to learn how to do paperwork."

"What?" Clint let his voice get high pitched with disbelief.

"It's not a vacation, Clint, it's getting grounded."

"Aww, paperwork."

"It's either that or getting schooled with rookies."

"What would that imply?"

"Target practice, language skills, sparring, lectures, -"

"Alright, I get it."

"Let's go do paperwork, then."

"Aww, paperwork." Clint said again but he got up anyways and followed Phil down to his office.

"That's not all Fury said." Phil told Clint as they took the elevators with glass walls.

Clint had been looking out at bare trees and winter gray skies, thinking of home and baby Coop, but he cast a glance at his handler. "Yeah? What else did he say?"

"Off the records, if you tell him I said this, I'll deny it."

They arrived to the correct floor and Clint walked quietly, waiting for the privacy of Phil's office before asking questions.

"What happened?" Clint sat and so did Phil.

"I told him that there are times when you tend to deviate from standard combat technique. You have a hard time following orders with objectivity if other people or teammates are concerned. You are careless with your own safety, also."

"Hmm. And what did Fury say to that?"

"Well, he gave me a file of one Natalia Alianovna Romanova." Phil took out the folder he had been holding since he'd left Fury's office and passed it over to Clint.

Clint had seen it on Phil, but he hadn't asked. When Phil wasn't out running ops off base, he was a very busy man, always on top of files and folders and documents and stationery, so Clint never really bothered asking what everything was. Phil usually told him, if he asked, and sometimes when he didn't even have clearance to know. He appreciated that he was trusted. Now, though, he just looked at the thin folder, SHIELD's insignia imprinted on the cover.

"Clint, it's not a bad thing to be different, or to choose not to follow protocol when people are in danger. It's noble of you to care enough to put yourself in danger for others. But you're a valuable asset and a good agent. Take care of yourself."

"What does that have to do with this Russian?"

"Nothing, that's your official assignment once you're back in the field. Now we get to do paperwork."

"Aww, hell."

* * *

 **AN: I have come to know what life was without WiFi. Or I would have posted sooner. Thank you for reading! And also to EdwardsElric3oct10, I wanted to see where Clint's family got him, 😊. Nik, thanks, and you too, Mellia Bee. Reviews give me life! A lot more to come, thanks for sticking with me so far!**


	15. Chapter 15

15\. Deployment

As it turned out, Clint was not an expert at doing paperwork. He was great at describing how something had happened, when it had happened, with what it had happened, but specifying protocols and using fancy wording was quite simply, boring. He liked talking about his bows, his explosives, and his arrows, and he could explain everything about them with textbook precision to the point that Laura sometimes laughed at his enthusiasm for his favored weapon. But, well, everything else was just... not interesting enough.

But Phil was firm and patient and Clint spent his days learning and mastering the ways of low clearance record keeping, and he rediscovered how much influence SHIELD had and how its jurisdiction had little to no boundaries. There were agents in South Africa, Nigeria, Cuba, Iceland, New Zealand, Shanghai, the Koreas, Poland, and dozens assigned to little villages and towns in between. Then he went along with Phil to meetings with the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, just to make sure all the government agencies got along and especially to make sure they stayed cooperative and SHIELD had no closed doors. It was amazing. He was genuinely surprised at how big SHIELD was.

And when he wasn't filing and trailing after Phil to whatever meetings Clint was allowed to go to, he spent his evenings with newbies in the shooting range.

"Johnson, has no one taught you how to hold a gun?" Clint finally said after watching a big burly guy miss the target seven times in a row.

"Uh, yes, sir."

He stepped away from the wall he'd been leaning against and walked towards Johnson, who leaned away from him timidly. "Dude, that is _not_ how you hold a gun. You're going to go wide every single time you fire. Watch." Taking the gun away, he positioned himself in front of the target. Making a show for the poor rookie, he shifted on his feet until they were a comfortable shoulder width apart and raised his arms, holding the gun in his left hand, his right over his left, his sights on the target before him. "Ready Johnson?" And he started firing, bullet after bullet, emptying the magazine until the hammer clicked. The target had an extraordinary small hole where each bullet had pierced through it one right after the other. Only Hawkeye could fire with that precision.

Clint put the gun down and turned to look at Johnson with a smirk. " _That -_ is how you hold a gun."

Johnson swallowed and stood up straight. "Yes sir."

The shooting range was quiet and Clint saw that everyone else was staring at him. He smiled and did the 'sup nod at the agents watching him.

"Agent Barton."

Suddenly Phil was there and Clint brushed past Johnson, still smiling.

"Hello, Coulson."

"If you're quite done with your show, please come with me."

"Of course, sir. As you wish."

Together they left the shooting range and its quiet admirers, making their way towards the helipads.

"I'm headed out to Bahrain. May got a location in the inhumans and that's where she is. Fury is giving you paternal leave, so you have a week. Sorry, that's all the time I could bargain for you." Phil spoke and walked quickly, and Clint saw he was a little agitated, a little worried. "Also, I hope you read the file I gave you on Romanova. If you haven't, you can take it with you, but-" Phil stopped walking abruptly and pointed at Clint, "Do _not_ lose that file. It contains highly sensitive material and-"

"Phil, I solemnly swear I won't lose that file," Clint raised his right hand and when Phil tried to interrupt he raised his eyebrows and started walking again, backwards this time so he could maintain eye contact with Phil. "And I don't mind having only one week of leave and whatever it is you're doing in Bahrain, just be careful." He resumed walking normally when Phil matched his stride.

"Alright." Phil said with a tight smile, as they went out to the roof where two ready helicopters were waiting for Phil. Clint saw that there were other agents here, experienced ones and Clint wondered wearily about Bahrain. "I'll probably be back by the time you return from your leave. Until then."

"Yes sir. You too."

Phil nodded once curtly, and Clint knew he was worried as he boarded the helicopter and the chopper took off. Clint watched it as it noisily seemed to float up into the air and he watched it until it was a miniscule black dot in the cerulean sky, until it seemed like it had never even been here in the first place. Then he ran to get his stuff and get a flight to Laura and baby Cooper.

* * *

His visit home had been short, but it had been nice. Laura, he'd seen, had been tired and a little overwhelmed. She managed on her own with a newborn for almost four weeks, but she was a new mom just like he was a new dad and he had decided to help as much as he could. He'd been careful to not be too sarcastic or too...you know, and he had made sure to help her with the house chores, making breakfast and taking care of his baby when he cried at night. Aww, babies. Baby Cooper had brown hair and Laura's sweet brown eyes, and he still slept a lot but Clint loved holding him to his bare chest when he was sleeping. He hoped his own father had been tender when he had been weeks old. Cooper seemed tiny with baby hands, baby feet, soft baby hair and a baby body that fit in the crook of Clint's arm. He was totally head over heels over his baby son.

Curiously, as soon as Clint had arrived at the Triskelion, Fury called him up to his office.

But when he got there, he was alone and he sat to think and wait for Fury. He leafed through the seriously thin file Coulson had given him and sighed.

This Romanova chick was serious. The Black Widow. He had never met her and Corona had warned him extensively about her. Word on the street was she was lethal, she was good with a gun, but could kill anyone with anything. Now Clint could see he knew more about her than even SHIELD. The file only had 17 confirmed kills from her, all important figures in the political and trafficking world, but Clint could count maybe 15 more that were not listed. She was Russian, obviously, came from something called the Red Room. Ah, yes, the Red Room, Coulson may have mentioned Peggy Carter and the Red Room once. Not a good place, apparently, but they'd taught Romanova and she could speak Mandarin, Romanian, French, Spanish, German, English, and obviously Russian. Aww, hell, she was absolutely dangerous. But so was he, he didn't doubt himself and he didn't doubt Coulson's ability to gather information.

The doorknob turned and Clint stood, closing the file and turning to face Fury.

"No word on them yet, sir?" Clint asked hopefully after Fury let him sit.

"No, do you have the file?"

"Yes, I do, sir."

"Good, I am deploying you to Orleans."

"New Orleans? Louisiana?"

"No, I'm deploying you to Orleans, France. Do you know how to speak French?"

"S'il vous plaît, monsieur. Je peux parler français mieux que tous vos agents," Clint smirked.

"Good, pack your bags, there's a shuttle waiting for you to take you to the airport. You'll take a flight to London, as Leopold Durand, then a train to Orleans. You'll rent a car and drive to Paris, there's a safehouse there."

"Nice, Paris! Quick question, though. Why am I going to Paris?"

"Because there's a kill order for the Black Widow and that's our last confirmed sighting of her. You, Agent Barton, are going to do the world a great service and you're going to-"

"Okay, cool, I understand."

"I'm not done, Barton. Don't draw attention to yourself and by all means do _not_ engage."

* * *

 **AN: I'm sorry I took forever, this chapter was really hard to write for some reason, I actually restarted a couple times. But I hope you like it and did nobody recognize the Black Widow's full name last chapter?**

 **Translation: Please, sir. I can speak French better than all your agents.**


	16. Chapter 16

16\. Pizza in Paris

So here was Leopold, speaking French 24/7, cursing like the locals and going to the best humble little cafés just like the locals. He was at a little café on la Rue du Petit Pont, close to the intersection with the Quai Saint-Michel-slash-Quai de Montenegro. Real complicated business, just decide which Quai it is, dear French people. The hard part about not attracting attention to himself was being ordinary, boring, nothing special about this guy, yours truly. Just another French man with a fake beard and a special fake nose he had attached himself and shaggy hair enjoying coffee and reading the newspaper.

Last night, at SHIELD's supplied safehouse, he'd memorized the contents of the folder on Romanova and stared at the blurry, low resolution color and very grainy picture of her until all he could see was her red hair. She could dye it of course, but women were vain, men were lusty and red hair probably made her look good. Ha, Red Room, red hair. He chuckled. Ce n'est pas drôle, Barton, tu dois concentrer. Whatever, but he hadn't seen her yet, and he was getting kind of bored, and thinking of ways to find her.

Surely this chick had enemies trailing after her, looking for her just like he was right now. Clint sighed and put his newspaper down, he wasn't very much interested in PACS and what it meant for French couples. He wasn't French, anyways, what did interest him though was that awesome looking pizza being sold at the other side of the street. Coulson always insisted they had breakfast when they went together to his missions and when he'd been grounded. Pizza was breakfast, he was totally going to have some pizza.

Leopold got up from his seat, payed for his coffee and walked across the street, making a determined beeline for the pizza when he bumped into her.

"Eh! Faires attention! Je suis marche!" _(Pay attention! I am walking!)_ French people were usually very nice, but she obviously didn't want to play nice.

"Ah, pardon, je suis désolé." _(Sorry, I am sorry.)_ And at that exact moment Clint met the greenest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. She was wearing a thick, elegant sweater and a tight skirt with very high heels and she was absolutely dangerous. Her hair was blonde and looked a bit wild, a well placed wig, he saw, but it was her. The nose, the cheekbones, the cold ire at the world in her gaze mixed with heavy burden of guilt making her eyes look...aged, like his had been when Coulson found him almost a year ago.

And just like that she was gone.

He had said sorry and she had stepped around him like he was a simple pebble in her path.

He was thankful for the obnoxious nose and beard. He wasn't sure if what had just happened qualified as engagement. She had met his gaze, though, and he knew that just like him, she catalogued and monitored and memorized people's faces. He was sure he could remember where she had seen them last and what they were wearing and had been looking if he wore a wedding ring, or how new or worn his jacket and trousers looked.

It was habit, sometimes he didn't even notice he was doing it himself.

He bought his pizza and stood there eating it happily, noticing pattern of traffic in people's paths as they walked. That was a mom over there, buying fruits and vegetables from a nearby market and that was her kid a few feet away, distracted and playful. That looked like a student hurrying back to the college nearby. And that enormous man with the gray turtleneck looked way too focused and was walking a lot faster than the average pedestrian. The guy was seriously big, and he had this aura about him that made people unconsciously step away, move in the opposite direction. But Clint could see everything and now he could see the Czech or the Russian or whatever he was, following her out towards... the Petit Pont... Clint craned his neck to search the bridge from where he stood.

He moved again, following the man discreetly, scrutinizing how he walked and how he looked around. The guy was a goon, the type of disposable man that gets sent out to do the dirty business and is usually not very subtle or smart about it. As they crossed the bridge, Clint saw her walking ahead, gracefully strutting on the street as if she owned it. Definitely dangerous. He took out a flip phone he'd bought with the credit card SHIELD gave him for Leopold and sent Fury a quick text.

 _Target in sight. Agent in pursuit._

Yeah, not very subtle but SHIELD had regulations and vocabulary lists.

The man stopped and turned around abruptly. Clint continued fussing with the phone. "Téléphone stupide," he muttered quietly as the man walked by him, heading in the opposite direction.

He continued walking for a little while, but now he had to make a decision. He could still see her, and knew where this bridge crossed into the Île de la Cité. There was a hospital and an archaeological site right across and not too far away was the cathedral of Notre Dame herself. But the man that had also been following her was going the other way. Aww, crap, she was his mission, not the goon.

He followed her and was surprised she walked down the steps into the archeological site. Maybe, he thought, it would be better to stay away and let her do whatever she was going to do in there. He could nail her when she came back out. He went over to a bench and sat down, pretending to enjoy the cool air and the blue sky and trying hard not to imagine himself here with Laura and trying hard not to imagine his baby boy as a clumsy toddler and Laura's soft smile as he took tentative steps across the plaza.

As he mulled over the chances of that ever occurring, something drew his attention again and he focused his gaze on the man that had been following her and had now come back. Clint remained in his seat as the man walked into the same door she had used. He stayed there, counting the seconds until the doors swung out and the man was walking her out, holding her by the arm. To anyone, the gesture seemed natural, relaxed, but Clint could see the set jaw of Romanova, the menacing hold the man's hand had on her arm. She stumbled and the man yanked on her arm.

"мягко, Vasily." _(Gently.)_ She spoke in a silky voice and Clint saw the anger in her eyes and how she grabbed onto his waist to regain her balance.

The mindless goon hadn't noticed but Clint almost smiled. She was astute. He stayed on the bench as they walked away and he used the surrounding buildings' windows to track them back across the bridge.

Not wanting to lose them, Clint stood up quickly and turned his light jacket inside out and combed his fingers through his hair, changing little details of his appearance. Hawkeye was on the hunt.

* * *

He followed their trail into a coffee shop, quickly noticing that it was closed for business and yet the door was unlocked. He walked in, closing the door swiftly. The inside was dark, and empty, but as Clint looked around he could discern that a violent scuffle had already taken place. There were broken pieces of chair and the leg of a table splintered on the floor. Clint walked farther into the shop, shattered glass crunching beneath his boots, and he froze when he heard a groan towards the back of the shop. Peering behind the counter, he saw the big man, Vasily, from across the bridge groaning, his shirt torn and a bleeding and probably broken left arm.

Vasily opened his eyes and azure blue met nut-brown for a second.

"вы и ваш глупый телефон!" _(You and your stupid phone!)_ Vasily wheezed out in Russian before he stood abruptly and charged at Clint.

Clint got hit in the face and a blow to the ribs before he was able to get his knife out and shove it to the hilt into Vasily's side, twisting as poor Vasily grunted and stepped out of his weakened grip. The Russian backed away from him, holding his side as blood stained his sweater. Clint frowned at him, wary and expectant, as Vasily fell to a knee and got out his own knife.

"Oh, génial. Allons-y, mon ami." _(Oh, awesome. Let's go, my friend.)_

Vasily stood back up with an impetus that amazed Clint and he arched an eyebrow. Vasily moved again and Clint thought that with bigger blades, they could have made the next Pirates of the Caribbean. Vasily threw a punch at the same time he tried to stab at Clint but he turned the blade around and broke Vasily's punching wrist.

"Pour quoi fais-tu ça à toi même?" _(Why are you doing this to yourself?)_ He asked finally when he had kicked at Vasily's wounded side and was holding him in a headlock, facing the door of the shop. Vasily squirmed but even the blood on him that made Clint's hands slippery wasn't going to make him loose the hold. Why the hell was this guy doing this?

"Я никогда не встречал французский так хорошо обученный," Vasily grunted out in slurred Russian. _(I've never met a French so well trained.)_

"Peut-être nous nous reste bien caché." _(Maybe we stay well hidden.)_

"Ваше время истекает, mon ami." _(Your time is running out,_ my friend _.)_

Clint frowned when Vasily chuckled darkly as they saw two silhouettes getting close to the door through the blinds of the windows of the shop.

"они являются вашими друзьями?" _(They're your friends?)_ Clint asked tersely in Russian and he sensed the surprise in Vasily's voice in his ability to speak his language well.

"о, да. вы собираетесь быть удивлены." _(Oh, yeah. You are in for a surprise.)_

"я так не думаю." _(I don't think so.)_ With that, Clint tightened his choke hold, feeling Vasily squirm and struggle as his oxygen was cut off. His movements became jerky and desperate as he tried to elbow Clint, claw at his face and even throw him over his shoulder, but within a few seconds he was out cold.

The door opened and two large men came in. Aww, hell. He'd wasted time. They looked at Vasily and then back up at Clint.

"Uhh.. Здравствуй?" _(Hi?)_

They must have been clones because they frowned and moved towards him at the same time. Clint groaned and took out his explosive. Fury was going to be very unhappy. So much for a stupid fucking phone.

* * *

 **AN: Thank Google for translating Russian because I don't know Russian. It seems pretty cool though. In case there's any more languages, do you want them inserted like they were here, or at the end by the AN?**

 _Ça n'est pas drôle, tu dois concentrer. = It's not funny, you have to focus._


	17. Chapter 17

17\. Chicken Soup

He had waited in rubble, feeling light scratches and a gash on his arm bleed. He had stayed still as he heard the sirens and had stayed still as the paramedics had dug him out and put him on a stretcher. He had not struggled as they treated his wounds on an ambulance and had taken him to a hospital.

And now he sat still in Phil's office, leaning heavily on an armrest, once again bandages covering his skin as his head pulsed with pain. Fury had sent Hill to tell him Phil would be arriving from a meeting in a few minutes.

How wonderful, even Fury didn't want to see him.

Clint could admit the way he had handled the situation could have been better but he had already lost the Widow, she had already left Vasily for him. From his point of view, there was nothing more he could have done.

His breath hitched from pain as he shifted his weight on the seat, he was probably going to visit the med bay later and ask for someone to put KT Tape on his arm.

He suddenly remembered his brother putting some on him for his shoulder before shows as a carnie. He remembered how the aerial silks sometimes strained his left shoulder. He sighed with tired melancholy and brushed the memory away, even as the door opened and Phil walked in.

His handler looked weary, and unusually unkept, as his shirt was rumpled and he was carrying his jacket in a ball as well as some folders.

"Hello, Clint." Even his voice sounded tired.

"Hey, Phil. Glad you're back, man." Well, he didn't sound too great himself, he thought as he leaned heavily on his hand. "How'd it go?"

"Less than optimal, unfortunately. There was... an incident. But we made it back." Phil spoke as he reacquainted himself with his office, not looking directly at Clint. "What about this Orléans thing? How was that?"

Clint reposed his head back against the wall and cracked a smile when he saw the look of genuine surprise as Phil finally turned to face him. He must really look in bad shape. "It was alright. Well.. not all right, but I made it out. And.. the Black Widow got away, and these three Russian gangsters tried to kill me, and I might have blown up half a block. But it's all good."

"Oh, Clint." Phil sighed and laced his fingers behind his head.

"C'mon Phil," Clint whined good-naturedly. "Fury hasn't grounded me yet."

"How mad is he?"

"Well, I don't know if he's mad, you know, maybe a little annoyed, vexed, maybe, but I wouldn't say mad, he hasn't-"

"Clint." Phil looked at Clint with exhausted eyes, but his voice was as calm as ever.

"Alright, he's mad. He hasn't called me in for debriefing yet, or mission document report or whatever you like to call it."

"A mission report summary?"

"Not yet." Clint was still feeling his head pound and he leaned sideways, resting his cheek on his hand again. "She took something. You should have seen her, Phil. The cleanest pick pocketing I've ever seen. She pretends to trip, hangs onto the guy's belt and just like that, she's got it."

"Hm."

"I'm serious. I've never seen anything like it. She's dangerous, I'm not sure even I would have felt it. I don't even know what it was she picked off of the guy."

"At least, you've seen the doctor by now." Phil sighed as he sat behind his desk and moved with a lethargy that was uncharacteristic of his usual self.

"Phil," Clint sat up in his seat, worried concern making him frown slightly. "Is everything alright?"

Another sigh from Phil, this one followed by a slight quirk of his lips, hinting at a small smile. "Clint, you're the one in bandaids and gauze and you're asking me if I'm alright?"

Clint smirked. "Well, when you say it like that.. But hey, you're avoiding the question."

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine." Phil looked away but took in a breath as if he was about to say something. Clint waited expectantly, searching Phil's expression for a clue as to what expect, and raised an eyebrow when Phil just let out a long breath.

"May took a desk job, and I was just in Fury's office talking about a project. I'm just tired and jet lagged, Clint. Don't worry about me." He finished with a pleading look and Clint got the feeling Phil didn't want to think about whatever had him down.

"Sure, whatever you say. I guess I'll just go to.. the shooting range, help the newbies out." Clint groaned with a smile as he heaved himself out of the chair.

"What? No! No, Clint. Go to your quarters and take the rest of the day off." Phil practically ordered before deciding to bribe him a little. "Have you been in there recently? You have a TV now and I can send up some food later. Just.. rest. Please."

"Yeah, okay." Clint easily gave in as he felt a wave of wobbliness wash over him when he began to walk towards the door. "Pizza would be nice."

* * *

When Clint woke up from his nap, he was lying on the couch facing the door, an arm under his head as a cushion, his other hand holding his Glock as it rested on his toned stomach. He didn't open his eyes when he woke from his nap, waiting to hear the knock on his door again.

Sighing tiredly, Clint sat up from his very comfortable position and peered at his Glock quizzically. _What would a mundane thug have that she would want?_ There was a reason she had walked all the way to the island in the middle of Paris.

She had known all along that Vasily had been following her. And now Clint wondered if she had suspected him as well. She was astute, she was dangerous, and she was gorgeous.

The knock at the door, again. Insistent.

Clint got up and tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants as he walked to the door pensively, a thoughtful frown on his features as he opened the door.

"Hello, I thought soup with vegetables would be more nutritive than pizza."

Ah. Phil. "Thanks. Come in."

Phil handed over the warm paper bag containing Clint's meal and entered his small kitchen with the ease of familiarity.

"I've been thinking." Clint held the bag mindlessly, but stood by the now closed door.

"And?" Phil sat at the table barely big enough for three people.

"Black Widow was after something. She knew she was being followed by the Russian dude and she took whatever she wanted from him. She had an agenda in Paris, Phil." Clint finally went to sit and started to open up the bag to get his styrofoam bowl of hot soup.

"Clint, why didn't you tell me you blew up a bridge?" Phil looked confused and a little bit disappointed.

"What?" Clint stopped moving with surprise making him frown. "I didn't blow up a bridge. I only set up one of my explosives at the closed café where the paramedics pulled me out." Clint got plastic silverware from the bag and placed them on the table before looking back up at Phil with a concerned look.

"What happened? Did Fury get a report of a fallen bridge in Paris? Phil, that's a _terrorist_ attack. Not the work of a marksman nor of an assassin, that's too broad of a target and too sloppy. Tell me."

"Just some misinformation, probably. Eat your soup," Phil nodded towards the steaming broth.

"Phil, I didn't set up any explosives under any bridges." Clint enunciated his words carefully. He wanted Phil to believe the truth. "You know I would never target civilians."

"I know. Then.. someone else must have done something. We're going to have to check our informant in France."

"Informant? Was Fury having me followed?"

"I don't think so. But it seems strange that a lone STRIKE Team member was reporting from Paris a day after you arrived."

Clint glared at his soup. Those sons of guns. They were the Council's men, he was sure of it. And all they wanted to see was for Hawkeye to mess up so they could accuse him and execute him. Why, though? Just because he.. led with his heart?

"Don't let this trouble you, Clint. Go on, eat your soup."

So he ate and Phil talked to him a little bit about the Avengers Initiative. Clint perked up his ears at this. Who knew Tony Stark and Bruce Banner were being watched and followed.

"Fury gave the Widow's case to Hua, it'll be her mission now." Once Clint was done with his meal, Phil dropped the piece of information onto the table like a heavy burden off his chest.

"Why did he do that? I could have gotten the job done."

"What, with two tries? Clint, you know Paris did not go well. Let someone else take over, you look tired and you're hurt."

"These scratches? They're nothing. Come on, Phil. Talk to Fury, tell him I can do it."

"This is beyond Fury now." There was regret in his voice at this. "The Council decided - and I'm quoting verbatim - that you should not be given any more missions unless I, your handler, can go with you to supervise. Besides, Hua left before you even arrived to Headquarters, she's half way around the world by now, and probably a day ahead too."

"Alright, Agent Coulson. What am I supposed to do now? Can I go home?" Clint leaned back into his seat with annoyance in his blue eyes. "I hope you managed to convince Fury _not_ to ground me."

"He isn't interested in grounding you. You will go to Shanghai. Once your wounds are healed, of course. There is a Spring Festival that lasts through June. Many targets, many dangerous people, and many formalities. I trust you remember how to tie a tie."

Clint hmphed and muttered. "Of course I know how to tie a tie."

"Wonderful, if not, I could teach you several knots, and recommend the ones most appropriate for which occasions."

"No-no. Phil. Thanks, but no. I can tie my own tie." Clint held his hands up in surrender and Phil chuckled. "Let's go to the med bay. I want some tape for my arm."

"Alright. An old strain?" Phil asked as he and Clint stood.

"Something like that."

They left Clint's bunk room together, quiet in companionship, passed through corridors and the always busy lobby, past the elevators to the higher levels before they arrived to their destination.

Phil was telling a nurse what Clint wanted done while the archer looked towards the Triskelion's back doors. Deliveries came in through there, as well as injured agents who needed immediate medical attention, dying agents who were holding on for a few seconds while doctors and nurses tried to save their lives, dead agents in body bags, waiting to be commemorated with the highest of honors and returned to their families. Clint prayed the latter would not be his case, prayed for a safe return to his family.

As he was thinking these very morose thoughts, the doors opened and he saw with growing alarm, a stretcher being pulled along quickly by running doctors and paramedics.

He moved out of their way as they brushed past hurriedly, calling out orders and for the next available surgery room.

It was Hua. Beaten, bloodied, bruised, injured to the very cusp of death and unconscious.

Clint remembered how the Russian had fought, with brutality and strength. These wounds were strategic and painful, but made with agility and what he hated to call graceful tactic.

He'd seen the pictures in _her_ file of the victims that fought back.

He knew who's handiwork this belonged to.

The Black Widow had taken Hua out of commission.


	18. Chapter 18

Clint picked up his baby boy with reverent adoration and was so happy when baby Cooper smiled at him. He'd been so worried he wouldn't be remembered. Laura had warned him to take it slow after almost five months and had remained very close to make sure the baby wouldn't panic.

But he'd only smiled a baby smile and the knot in Clint's chest had unfurled into warmth. He'd never guessed he'd be so mushy for his baby.

"I argued with Phil." Clint confessed as he lay next to Laura in bed, Cooper sleeping soundly on top of him.

"Argued?"

He sighed into his answer. "Yeah, there was a job in Paris and it didn't go so well. I told him to give me another shot but no."

". . . Maybe it's safer for you not to go." Laura was on her side, an arm beneath her head, the other hand caressing Cooper's dark hair.

Clint gazed at his baby, how his breathing moved his little body and frowned as he remembered Hua. "Safe."

There was one thing he wanted for Laura and his child. He wanted them to be safe.

Now he walked back from the shooting range, after an irritating episode of having a tight shoulder and knowing that when he aimed, his elbow was too high. He was still armed, but walking through the hallway behind the lobby to take the long way to his little cache near the roof, to cold, fresh air and heights.

"It's good to see you Barton." A blonde Bobbi Morse was walking towards him with a friendly smile.

"Hey." He'd seen her before, an agent with experience and one of the few that didn't give him a bad feeling.

"Coulson sent me. Said to meet him at the helipads." She stopped a few strides away from him, and suddenly Clint felt himself being assessed.

"Oh. Okay.." He kept walking past her and angled his head at her when she kept a pace beside him.

"I'm coming along for a mission." Her blonde hair swayed as she moved gracefully next to him.

Clint raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch, surprised at having been assigned a partner. "Did Coulson say for what mission?"

"No. The only thing he said was we were needed A-S-A-P."

"Hm."

They arrived at the helipads where Phil was already in a heated argument with the pilots pointing at a schedule and back to the helicopters. Morse walked on ahead with confidence, but Clint chose to stay behind instead and enjoy the slow minutes before the rush of an op, the height bringing in the cool breeze to his hair as he looked over Washington DC.

* * *

It seemed that no matter what advanced design of these flying machines, it would always be a loud trip as they flew over the Pacific ocean, miles and miles of infinite blue stretching out all around them into a round horizon. He felt almost at peace and in a good mood from this height and with this view, but his face was still very serious and he hid all his emotions instinctively.

Phil was sitting up front next to the pilot, while he and Morse sat next to each other, strapped down to the side of the helicopter.

The loud roar of the engine discouraged small talk and Phil had not yet told them where and to what they were going so he alternated from looking out the window to messing with the tip of an arrow. It was equipped with a bronze tip but it was chipped on one side. He could try to smoothen out the jagged edge, or he could cut the other side, or he could just use it as it was. It wouldn't be the first time he'd adjust his aim for a faulty arrow and besides, he would never miss.

"Hey." Morse leaned toward him, nodded up at Phil.

Clint looked at her questioningly and then turned his line of sight towards Phil. He didn't know what the blonde woman was trying to point out but he trusted Phil would feel his intense gaze.

Sure enough, Phil shifted in his seat to meet his eyes with the softness of warmth and trust.

As they flew closer to land, the place where Clint assumed was their destination, the coast was but a bumpy line of darker gray that rose up from the fog of the ocean.

"We're headed to Shanghai." Phil yelled over his shoulder to be heard. "There's an international ring of human trafficking taking place under the alibi of casino deals. Barton, you will play the part of a wealthy businessman, Bryce Donovan."

Clint received a folder and he read its contents with mildly raised eyebrows. Wealthy indeed, he owned several hotels and casinos in San Francisco, all with noteworthy profits. He looked over at Morse's folder, how were they going to be connected at Shanghai? But what he read made him frown and pull back.

"Morse, you will be Desarae Hartman. You met Bryce on a cruiser to the Caribbean, and are the heiress to a foreign duke's estate. Thus he asked you to marry him."

Phil saw Clint's barely concealed scowl and gave him a small smirk. "It gets better. This trafficking ring will be interested in Desarae. They will probably want to hold her for ransom as her lineage is very rich. But of course, there is always the possibility that they might be short of money enough to want to sell her to the highest bid."

Clint turned to Morse and knew her incredulous expression mirrored his own.

"So do I get to be the knight in shining armor?" Clint turned back to Phil as the helicopter landed and they began to unload.

"Yeah. When she gets captured, Bryce will disappear, they will think he's fled to get reinforcements, but you'll stay and with Morse on the inside and you underground, it should be an easy enough op."

* * *

"Right! Easy enough op my ass." Clint grumbled as he walked through the dimly lit Chinese house, smoke wafting through the air and impregnating his sharp navy blue suit.

"It could be worse." Morse was hanging onto his arm in a long lacy black dress, looking and acting the part of beautiful heiress.

"Worse?" He smiled at her, but wished it were a certain brunette on his arm instead, looking beautiful in an expensive dress.

"Yes.. you could be the one walking around in heels." Morse smiled back genuinely, never noticing how Clint's smile almost faltered when he chuckled.

"Alright, it could be worse."

Morse left his arm and went to sit alone at a small table, looking over her bare shoulder at him with something bordering on suggestive. Clint swallowed and cleared his throat as he turned towards the poker tables.

He joined a game without ceremony, the rest of the players a mix of wealthy Chinese merchants businessmen and a good number of Europeans. He was dealt his cards and he began to bet. He knew how to manipulate, deceive, he knew how to play this game and each time he bet more money, the man across from him furrowed his brow further in anger.

One of the women of the house came over to stand next him and smiled prettily. He smiled back, knowing she was meant to distract him. It was alright, he didn't mind being distracted. When she called for a small chair so she could sit next to him, Clint smirked and looked for Morse.

She didn't look happy. He was winning, the plan was going well, why was she frowning at him?

The woman next to him placed a hand on his knee and leaned towards him, but he glanced at his cards again and placed a larger bet. The man across from him glared at Clint.

This was _fun._ After a few more rounds, the man across from him stood up and left with a distasteful string of Mandarin thown at Clint, while the archer only smiled back politely.

He won the game and left the table to collect his prize in a suitcase, the pretty woman of the house beside him. But when he stood at the center of the large room to look around, he couldn't find Morse anywhere. He arched an eyebrow at this progress in the plan. He never doubted Phil, but he had honestly thought it would take more time for his "fiancée" to go missing.

He turned in a slow circle, making a show of his confusion, and through the impassive faces all around him, he saw _her._ Her hair was red again, and she was wearing an ivory colored dress that hugged her form enticingly. She was looking straight at him, and he forced himself to look away from her serpentine green eyes like he did when he met the eyes of a stranger.

Clint frowned before moving towards the exit, taking his leave and feeling her eyes on him and his new companion.

Black Widow didn't know him, there was no way she had been looking _at_ him. It was a coincidence, she was probably here to make easy money, or on a small side job.

And that is how Bryce Donovan got mugged.

As he left through a small hallway, away from _her_ eyes, the woman of the Chinese house lept at Clint out of nowhere. She kneed him in the gut, elbowed his face before giving him a proper punch and took the briefcase of money from him. He heard the snip of a drawn switchblade, and a second later felt the angry fire of pain between the ribs of his right side.

"For taking from this house what does not belong to you," she snarled. "And your woman too. Good luck finding her."

She left him there, on the rich carpet, bleeding. Clint wanted to scoff. Nobody dies quickly from a knife wound to the side. He stood with a grunt and through the slashed fabric saw the deep, jagged line of blood. Aww, hell, why couldn't Bryce Donovan have taken some self defense classes. Phil had better brought a sewing kit.

By the time he made it to the hotel suite, where his handler was supposed to be waiting for him, he had to lean against the wall and was breathing heavily. The lightheadedness was what got to him.

Sometimes heights could do that to a person, make them lightheaded, but it had never affected him. It wasn't until he started work as a merc, that he knew what it was to feel dizzy, unsteady, the floor swirling around him.

He fumbled with the doorknob, staining it red with his blood, Phil would have to wipe it clean. Phil was talking. When did he get here?

"Are you always this uncoordinated?" Clint hooked his arm around Phil's neck, no longer able to support himself and Phil grabbed him under his arm, avoiding his wounded side to drag him into the room.

No, he was good, he was the best tight line walker, the best aerialist the Traveling Carnival had ever had. He was the amazing Ha-

"Yes, I know. Now be quiet. Why did you walk all the way here? That 45 minute walk almost drained you." Phil helped him sit on the couch, hurrying to get the medical kit.

What? The doorknob. Cabs in Shanghai exist? And Morse went AWOL. They need to have humidifiers in casinos. And air fresheners, what are those machines called? Purifiers. We need one of those in your office, Phil. So you don't smell the dust. And that way, when you clean your Captain America cards, they'll be purified..

"Please." Phil set the kit down and brought his hand up to support Clint's head. "Shhh. Now drink this."

Whiskey? Or bourbon? A shot of teq-

"Drink." Phil ordered and was relieved when Clint cooperated. "I'm going to sew your wound closed. Then you're resting for the rest of the day."

Rest? Nighthawks stay awake during the night. And spiders. Black Widow. Spiders and magic. Phil, I'm tired.

"Black Widow? Is she here?" Phil had already finished cleaning the wound, glad it had not been a serrated blade, and had just started to close it, making steady and precise needlework. But Clint's eyes were fluttering shut.

"Hey, stay with me. I need you awake. Did you see her? Is she here?

She couldn't have been looking at me. She doesn't know me, Phil. I don't know what she's after. I want them to be safe, Phil...

* * *

He had fallen asleep but woken up early. Phil had changed his shirt for a black t-shirt, the kind he used beneath his tactical suit, which he put on and left hurriedly to make up for the wasted time he'd spent. He was an idiot. Babbling about stupidities. He had to finish this job.

He didn't even feel that weak, but, he'd let the Black Widow rattle him more than he would ever admit.

He went out when the sun wasn't even up yet, angry at being wounded and eager to bring swift justice to these traffickers.

And the job was done. Morse had started working quickly, and had taken down the guards that watched over the abducted. By the time Clint tracked down the leaders and terminated them, she'd liberated all of the women and children.

But she was angry and silent in the helicopter on the way back.

Clint was sitting awkwardly to lessen the strain on his wound, and so Phil wouldn't look too closely at it. He had fought with a few men, and one in particular had savagely punched his side more than once, until Clint hissed out a curse and snapped his opponent's neck. He hoped it hadn't reopened, he didn't want Phil wasting time on him. It just hurt like hell.

Morse wasn't looking at him, he didn't know why. She was uninjured, she had said so to Phil with a slightly smug smile, but when Clint had tried to say she had been a great help, she turned away and walked past him to board the helicopter.

When they touched down on the helipads, she asked Phil to dismiss her and left without even a good bye.

This was exactly why he did not work with a team or a partner.

"I'm going to report with Fury." Phil walked inside with Clint at his side. "You better go to the med bay for that injury."

"No, I'm good."

"Clint, you need liquids and probably antibiotics. I did a quick job, it-"

"Will be enough, Phil. If you sewed it closed with half as much care as you do everything else, it will be fine. I'll grab a bite from the cafeteria and if it'll make you feel better, you can come play doctor at my bunk, but I'm not going to the med bay."

"Fine, you stubborn Hawk. Get something for me, too."

"Will do. Thanks, Phil." Thanks for not pushing, for being a good friend, for ignoring my spewing out randomness, for bringing me back safe.

* * *

 **AN: Sorry this took so long. I really am. So Morse isn't jealous because.. feminism. Will explain later. And I'm thinking that this story will not go through the entirety of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, that is wayyy too much cinema. And universe. SO I will be amending the summary soon. As always, reviews are love.😄**


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